


I’ve Kissed Honey Lips (Felt the Healing in the Fingertips)

by loveroflou



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (he/they), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alpha Louis, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Attempted Sexual Assault, Car Accidents, D/s undertones, Daddy Issues, Feminine Harry, Feminization, Flower Child Harry, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gender Issues, Happy Ending, Harry in Panties, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Jealous Harry, Louis in Panties, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Nesting, Nightmares, OT5 Friendship, Omega Harry, Past Child Abuse, Protective Louis, Relapsing, Royal Harry, Scenting, Self-Acceptance, Sharing a Bed, Strangers to Lovers, Therapy, Trans Harry, Trauma, implied alcoholism, louis calls harry pet names, not h&l:, referenced domestic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:33:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28465374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveroflou/pseuds/loveroflou
Summary: Carefully, Zayn starts, “You do know Niall wasn’t joking about him being unstable, right?” Louis opens his mouth to cut him off, but Zayn continues, “He might not have done anything yet, but that doesn’t mean he can’t, or won’t.”“You don’t know him,” Louis tries, because it’s true. The only problem is that Louis doesn’t really know Harry, either.or, the raisin cookie fic
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 47
Kudos: 325
Collections: OmegaHarryFicFest





	I’ve Kissed Honey Lips (Felt the Healing in the Fingertips)

**Author's Note:**

> (to everyone who understands the driving scene for more than what’s written, this fic is for you.)
> 
> i’ve spent the last twenty minutes trying to write in _only_ the most important tags as not to over-tag, but that clearly did not happen because there was no way i wasn’t going to mention that louis barely says harry’s name in the fic. the other boys are there too, i just didn’t tag anything related to them.
> 
> i tagged trans harry because the character _is_ trans. he still uses he/him throughout the course of the story but he’ll probably use they too in the future. he still hasn’t figured himself out quite yet.
> 
> the tags look messy, but the angst is presented really gently, in my opinion, and the fic is really fluffy, all about louis and harry falling in love. the recovery from the things mentioned, which, for the most part, happen in the past, happens along the way.
> 
> thank you to my best friend abby for putting together a whole wardrobe for harry and being lovely enough to figure out solutions to all the plot holes and half-formed plot line somehow without getting mad; bel, mel, kelsey, nancy and everyone else who hyped this up and talked me out of my mental breakdowns; [aria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daffodilsforlou/pseuds/daffodilsforlou) for reading this over at the very beginning when it was messy as fuck and telling me it’s not as bad as i thought it was; stu for beta-ing this for me; lizzie, lea and shreya for reading this after it was finished and reassuring me i’m not going to die if i post it; and the mods for being so patient! i love every single one of you so much.
> 
> disclaimer – it’s all my imagination. i don’t own one direction or anything but the original characters.  
> don’t repost this anywhere or translate it.
> 
> written for ohff 2020 prompt #52.
> 
> title is from i still haven’t found what i’m looking for by u2.

Between bushes and blooming flowers, there’s a man that Louis is certain he’s not met in the three months he’s spent in the village. There’s a small watering pot in his hands that he is using to water the garden, and his back is to Louis, who is gaping, only slightly.

He paints a pretty picture, back poised and movements elegant. The flower crown on his head and his naked feet squishing the wet grass beneath them blend him right in with the scenery, and Louis is almost surprised no birds are singing around him or bunnies hopping by his feet like there is in the movies his little sisters like to watch.

“Hey,” Louis says, loud enough to get the man’s attention but still soft. The man is startled anyway, and he flinches when he meets Louis’ eyes, shoulders hunching like he’s trying to protect himself. Louis’ waving hand drops to his side, and he frowns when the man stumbles and falls onto his bum, his face twisting in pain and the flower crown slipping from over his head.

“Hey,” Louis says again, his voice concerned now, “I’m sorry, are you okay–?”

He’s shaking, Louis notices as he gets closer, hands trembling where they’re digging into dirt and grass blades like they’ll anchor him. His eyes widen more with every step forward Louis takes, so he stops himself right outside of the garden and raises his hands in front of him, softening his features in an attempt to look less threatening.

The man only scrambles backwards, though, away from Louis and up on his feet, and runs into the little cottage just beside the tiny garden before Louis has the chance to ask if he’s okay again.

It’s easily the most bewildering encounter Louis’ had in a long time, what with the everlasting peacefulness of the village, and it repeats in his head over and over as he walks back home to shower and get himself ready for work.

Niall notices that something is off almost immediately after letting himself into the pub, but he doesn’t ask, and Louis doesn’t say anything.

(Louis dreams of terrified green eyes that night, and when the morning comes he skips out on his morning walk to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling instead.)

* * *

His skin itches with the senseless need to go, a push in his gut that feels a lot like the growling of his inner alpha leading him directly to the little cottage, and Louis spends the way there with Niall’s voice like a broken record in his head, but he doesn’t turn back.

“ _He’s an unstable alpha_ ,” Niall told him three days after Louis first saw the man in the garden. “ _We only know that his family left him here because he’s dangerous enough that he hurt his older sister. He never leaves his house, and no one knows anything else about him._ ”

Before Louis could argue that he looked more like a scared little kitten, Niall looked him straight in the eyes, sky blue piercing Louis’ cobalt. “ _Stay away from that path,_ ” he’d said seriously. He may be younger than Louis, but he’s lived in the village for years, and Louis may be in love with adventure and terribly intrigued, but when Niall makes him promise not to go, he does.

He’s reached the blooming bushes when the guilt starts building up in his stomach, but then he spots the man seated with his back pressed to the side of the cottage and a book in his hands, the damp grass blades squished under the soles of his naked feet, and it’s enough of a distraction, at least for now.

Louis watches, mesmerised, as wind breathes into his hair, disturbing carefully combed curls. The man puts his book down, tucking a finger in between the pages so as not to lose the lines he’d reached, before reaching up with the other hand to fix the pink and yellow clips snug in his hair.

He’s nose deep in his book a moment later, too lost in the words and the lulling chirping of birds to notice Louis staring at him like a creep.

He looks small, Louis observes, movements quiet, noiseless and slow. _Sad_ , almost. Lost. Louis has the nonsensical urge to cuddle him to his chest and protect him.

Moving closer, Louis clears his throat, stepping back immediately when the man flinches, the book falling from his now softly trembling hands as his eyes snap up to Louis’ face. A hesitant glint of recognition fills the green of his eyes, and Louis takes a moment to wonder how many people he sees on a day-to-day basis if he’s managed to instantly recognise a stranger he only got glimpses of a handful of days ago.

“Hi,” Louis says softly, stupidly. The man does not attempt to move, and Louis scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. Maybe he’s planning the easiest way to kill Louis. Maybe this is a bad idea.

He should probably, definitely, leave. “Can I sit?” he asks instead, flailing an arm dumbly in front of himself. If the man’s going to kill him, Louis would like him to do it now, please.

The man doesn’t nod, but he doesn’t shake his head or say anything either. Louis nods to himself, sending a prayer to the stars and the moon to make it back home in one piece, and plops down on the wet grass.

It’s uncomfortable, and he shifts a little, leaving a respectable distance between them, before realising he has nothing to do when he settles down.

He takes in his surroundings to pass time, his eyes skipping over the man now engrossed in his book again to take in the cottage and its garden. It’s small – Louis doesn’t think it could house more than one room – and old, the brick structure painted a creamy white. Flowers are covering almost every inch of it, dangling from the windows and growing in the cracks between the bricks. It looks soft, somehow, a little like a safe haven. The steps leading down to the garden are cracked more than not, but it looks more intentional than broken down by the weather. Flowers bloom in every little bush, and it’s obviously well taken care of, it looks something out of a fairy tale.

His eyes finally fall onto the man still crouched in on himself reading. He doesn’t look like a threat, not even a little. The flower crown is missing from over his head this time around, but it doesn’t take from the gentleness he emits, and Louis finds it a little hard to tear his eyes away – until the man’s cheeks pinken, and Louis notices how stiff he is.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, staring at his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap.

The man doesn’t say anything.

* * *

Louis doesn’t mean to go back, and he probably shouldn’t, not so close to a rut as he is, but he does. The man spares him a fleeting glance when he cautiously steps into the garden and takes a seat before focusing back on his book, and Louis lets himself watch him, catch the way his pale skin glows in the sun and his fingers tremble softly when he flips the pages. His nails are painted a lemonade pink.

It doesn’t take Louis long to notice that the overwhelming scent in the air is only that of flowers and the rich, damp grass, the man’s scent missing completely. He doesn’t ask, just goes back to watching him. He’s not been killed yet, so it couldn’t be that bad.

Louis’ rut hits unexpectedly and early the next morning, three days before it’s due. It’s far too strong, the way it was when it hit him the very first time, and he whines into his pillow as he strips himself down.

(He can’t help the feeling that something is missing.)

It lasts longer than the four days Louis’ used to, stretching to six and only puttering down by the morning of the seventh. He spends it thinking of green eyes and spreading a stranger open, and by the time he catches his thoughts he’s too disgusted by himself to do more than lie in bed after a scorching hot shower.

Niall’s eyes are worried when Louis asks to visit his family earlier than he’d planned, but he offers to drop him off at the train station and waves off Louis’ protests. Before he boards, Niall hugs him tight and tells him to come back only when he’s feeling better.

* * *

Jay, his mum, and the girls are ecstatic to see him, smiles wide on their faces when they pick him up from the train station. He tells himself he doesn’t hug them tighter than necessary, scenting them gently for comfort, and sighs into his mum’s neck when she keeps him in her arms too long it should be awkward, but it isn’t.

She doesn’t ask, lets Louis spend the day messing around with four rowdy children, and it’s only after he’s put them to bed and tucked himself in the corner of the couch that she finally lets her concern show, taking a seat across him and handing him a steaming cup of tea. He smiles softly at her, at the calming pheromones she scents into the air to soothe him, and takes a small sip of his tea after blowing on it.

“I met someone,” he starts quietly, unprompted. Jay nods to show him he’s got her attention, and Louis inhales deeply. It’s shaky when he lets it out.

“I met someone,” he says again, tacking a hysterical laugh at the end of it. “He’s this crazy dangerous alpha who’s probably planning the least tiring way to kill me by now, and he hasn’t even spoken a single fucking word to me and I don’t know why my wolf is so confused and I spent my whole rut thinking about him and he’s an _alpha_ , Mum, and–”

“Louis,” she says softly, placing a hand on his trembling ones.

He whispers, “Sorry,” and sets the mug down.

Jay frowns. “No, baby. Come here.” She pats her lap, and Louis scrambles to curl up in her arms. He thinks he probably looks like a giant pup to her. Scratching at his scalp soothingly, she says, “Tell me, you met an alpha?”

Forcing his eyes to stay open, Louis hums.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No,” Louis breathes softly. “He’s really soft, actually. I haven’t seen much of him – but he’s always sitting in a bed of flowers by this little cottage of his, reading. He doesn’t say anything when I sit with him, but, like. That’s better than the first time he saw me, at least.”

His smile dips at the corners, a frown taking over his face. “He was terrified,” he explains. “He ran into his cottage as soon as he noticed I was there.”

Jay hums, brushing Louis’ fringe back with gentle fingers. “How’d you know he’s dangerous, then?”

“Niall,” Louis says, closing his eyes, “I told you about him on the phone – the blond, Irish one? – yeah, he told me.” He pauses, then starts again, guilty, “He made me promise not to go see him again, but. I was too curious, I guess.”

Jay laughs a little, and Louis blinks up at her. She rolls her eyes. “Quit pouting. You look like a kicked puppy. I’m not going to scold you for breaking a promise.” Louis huffs as she adds, “I know you had your reasons.”

It’s quiet for a handful of minutes as Jay plays with his hair and Louis stares up at nothing. He shuffles, buries his face in her stomach. “He doesn’t want me there,” he says quietly on a mumble, “you know? He’s always so tense when I’m there.” His sad smile gets lost somewhere in the folds of her shirt, and he grips tightly at her with his eyes closed. He feels so little, and like he might cry. His wolf is restless in his chest, his heart thumping frantically, urgently.

He falls asleep to his mum whispering sweet nothings into his hair.

(He spends a week surrounded by family, and it should be enough, it always was, but he still goes to sleep each night feeling like something is missing.)

* * *

“Louis!” He stumbles back, hands reaching up instinctively to catch the blur of black that throws itself at him and feet tripping over each other in an attempt to stay upright. He manages, just barely, and suddenly he has an armful of Zayn Malik grinning down at him like they’re long lost lovers while his actual boyfriend stands awkwardly a couple of feet away with Niall, who’s bent over laughing.

Louis laughs, too, rolling his eyes fondly. “What the fuck, bro?”

Still grinning, Zayn leans down and plants a wet, exaggerated kiss on Louis’ mouth. Louis stands still for a minute.

Then he drops him.

He supposes it doesn’t exactly put him on Liam’s good side, but Zayn is giggling on the gravely floor of the train station as Liam frets over him, and it’s all a bit ridiculous, really.

Niall’s loud laughter sets Louis laughing again, and in some part of him, he thinks he’s missed this dearly, too.

Introductions are thrown over the music blaring from the radio of Liam’s small car they all squeeze into. Zayn’s more smiley than Louis’ ever seen him, tracing a thumb over Liam’s hand from where their fingers are entwined over the console as they speak to each other in hushed murmurs and sneak in giddy glances. He thinks he won’t see much of Zayn – or Liam, really – until Liam leaves the village for school again.

A small part of him, one Louis tries not to acknowledge, longs for what they have.

When he pushes his forehead against the cool glass of the window and closes his eyes, he pretends he doesn’t see glimmering green eyes.

* * *

It feels like Louis’ seen everyone in the village today, all of them coming up to the pub to see him and say hello. He locks up with a yawn that he stifles with the back of his hand, and his legs are tired and sluggish as he makes the trek to his house.

He stands in front of his door for a minute, two, debating, before forcing himself inside.

He doesn’t go see him the next morning, or the one after that. Niall’s eyes are worried when he asks if he’s okay, and Louis just nods, doesn’t know how to explain that his inner wolf is whining insistently in his chest or that he feels like he’s missing a part of himself without it sounding hysterical.

Louis cracks by the fourth day. The sun isn’t quite out yet and the air is quiet save for the soft humming of birds as he makes his way to the outskirts of the village, stepping hesitantly into the garden when he reaches.

It’s empty, no traces of the man anywhere when Louis looks around, hope slipping through his fingertips with every turn of his head and shift of his eyes.

He sighs dejectedly, walking backwards like if he lingers long enough the man will appear, and maybe Louis was foolish enough to think he’d be here in the first place.

The cottage door flings open just as he’s turning around, and he's met with the sight of a man who looks so small and anxiously relieved, somehow, hopeful while still looking like he’s about to cry.

The corners of his eyes are kissed with a sharp red, his lips cracked when he runs to where Louis is and leans in far too close Louis is forced to lean back so their heads wouldn’t bump.

“Why didn’t you come?” he asks desperately, stumbling backwards like he was just making sure Louis was real. A glaze sits over the green of his eyes, but Louis’ more focused on how deep his voice is, smooth and soft even when his words are tumbling over each other. “Why’d you stop coming? Did I do something?”

Louis’ eyes widen a little more with every word, and he raises his hands to still the man’s flailing before catching himself and pulling them away. “Whoa, hey, hey – breathe,” he says, tone of voice falling soft and gentle like he’s trying to soothe a spooked animal. “Let’s sit down first, yeah?” he continues quietly when the man takes a shaky inhale in, his cheeks coated with red.

He blinks, nodding slightly, and Louis’ fingertips tingle by his side when a tear falls down his face and sticks to the sharp line of his jaw. Slowly, he retreats backwards, looking back to check if Louis’ following him, and sits down, his skirt bunching up over his thighs. Louis does follow, sitting closer to him than he usually does while still leaving a distance between them.

When it becomes clear that the man is waiting for Louis to speak, he takes a minute to study him. His shoulders are hunched, his face blotchy, and he’s curling in on himself like he’s trying to make himself smaller, trying to hide – trying to _disappear_ , almost.

He looks so tiny, nothing like the alpha Louis remembers sitting with, the head raised high and confident posture missing, and like he’s confused with his own body, almost like he’s waiting for Louis to find something that will make him want to leave again.

“I’m Louis,” Louis says instead of asking about anything and everything. He doesn’t know the man’s _name_ , he doesn’t deserve his story. “Louis Tomlinson. And you are?”

The man hesitates. “Harry,” he says quietly. “Pleased to meet you.”

Louis offers him a gentle grin. “Likewise,” he replies, not questioning the lack of a last name. Harry’s eyes are expectant when they catch his again, and a frown takes over Louis’ face. “I didn’t mean to leave – well, at the beginning at least. My rut was due,” he explains a little awkwardly, “then I went back home to visit my family.”

Harry’s hanging onto his every word, like if Louis says the wrong thing it would break him.

Softly, he asks, “I thought you didn’t want me here?” and he thinks his smile is more confused than he means to let on.

“No,” Harry insists hurriedly, his curly hair jumping around as he shakes his head, “I’m just not really used to people being around. I don’t leave the cottage much.”

Louis’ expected as much, but he still asks, “You live alone?” a little stupidly, and Harry nods faintly in confirmation.

He’s starting to look uncomfortable under the searching blue of Louis’ eyes, beads of sweat dotting his hairline and long fingers tangling together in his lap. He blinks once, twice.

Waiting for a blow, almost.

“You were always reading when I’d come,” Louis says instead of, “ _Are you lying?_ ” or, “ _Are you going to drag me into your house to murder me?_ ”

Tension seeps slowly from Harry’s shoulders and he nods again. “Yeah. I don’t have much to do so I either read or tend to the flowers, most of the time.” He pauses, opens his mouth, closes it, then again, before shaking his head at himself. “What do you do?” he asks.

Louis smiles, proud, “I have a pub, actually.”

Something like recognition flashes in Harry’s eyes, and Louis _knows_ Harry’s never been to the pub before, but he’s too afraid to question it. He’s never been anywhere near a feral alpha, and he’d like to keep it that way.

Harry tenses again, probably at the change in Louis’ scent, and Louis wonders if he’s sharing too much and should go home, never meet up with Harry again. If that’s his real name, anyway.

He’s about to explain, dig himself into a bigger hole, when his phone rings, harsh in the gentle quiet that’s built around them. Harry flinches, and Louis looks with worried eyes from the phone to him. He nods, soft, small.

“You should go,” he says, barely a whisper.

(It doesn’t feel like a rejection. Louis clings to it.)

“Okay, yeah.” It’s Niall calling, and Louis gulps, catching sight of the time. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks as he turns away to run the path back and straight to the pub. Harry doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t shake his head ‘no’ either.

Niall is furious. He sits Louis down and glares at him with fire in his eyes until Louis gives in and spills, little clumsy words stringing together to place his confusion in Niall’s expecting hands.

He’s glared at for the rest of the day, and he feels terrible, he _does_ , but he doesn’t know how to explain that it felt right.

When he leaves, Niall doesn’t say goodbye, doesn’t spare Louis a glance.

Louis still goes to see Harry the next day.

“Hey,” he says softly, reminiscent of the first time he stumbled into the garden. Harry doesn’t look up at him, but he doesn’t startle either. It warms something up in Louis’ heart like fresh honey. He feels a little pathetic.

There’s a book sitting crooked in Harry’s hands, (his nails are painted a soft, sunshiny yellow today), and the curls loose from his tiny twin braids keep flicking over in the wind to cover his eyes, but he makes no move to adjust them. His denim overalls are pale over a simple white tee, cuffed once at the ankles.

Louis sits down in his usual place, (close but not close enough), feeling stupidly underdressed in his running shorts and hoodie at seven in the morning. Harry still doesn’t acknowledge him, too lost in between neatly pressed words.

He’s soft, Louis thinks as he observes him, softer than any alpha he’s met. He’s much softer than Louis, even, and Louis’ the one people usually mistake for an omega. He makes up for it with his large presence, though, the air of importance he exudes even just sitting down in the middle of a garden reading.

He looks royal, almost, something like a gem untouched.

When he’s due to leave for work, Harry still hasn’t spoken a word to him. When Louis goes back the next morning, Harry smiles, staring resolutely at his book as his lips break into a soft grin, and Louis thinks waking up earlier to come sit with him in silence longer wasn’t a bad idea, not at all.

* * *

Zayn is sitting on top of the counter, completely ignoring Louis’ calls to get down. Louis doesn’t really mind, because even though Zayn’s smoking and smoking is strictly prohibited inside the pub, he’s also giving Louis sad eyes and a pout every time Louis glances his way. The pub is nearly empty anyway, the last couple of customers either too lost in their little worlds or too fond of Zayn to say anything. He did grow up in the village, after all.

Louis lets him sulk for a total of two beers before telling him to cut the bullshit.

“Shut up, Louis,” Zayn says, not unkindly. “I’m boyfriend-less. I can sulk.”

Rolling his eyes, Louis takes the cigarette from between his fingers and stubs it out, throwing it into the bin, his nose scrunched in disgust.

“Stop being a drama queen. He’ll visit again when he can, you know that. And stop smoking, that shit kills you.”

Zayn groans. “Fuck you, bro,” he says, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “I’m calling Liam; he should be back in the dorms by now.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Louis calls after him, and Zayn gives him the middle finger without turning around.

It’s quiet for a total of eight minutes, Louis knows because he counts, just the clacking of forks and spoons against plates and soft thumps against the tables when someone or the other puts their glass down intermingling with the quiet hum of music and snippets of chatter Louis tunes out.

Niall finally turns to him, after, gives him an unimpressed look that Louis resolutely ignores. “You said you were going to tell him.”

“I am, Niall, just not _today_ –”

“Tell who, what?” comes Zayn’s voice, his accent thick and posh and the absolute last thing Louis needs right now. He shoots Niall a warning look.

“Weren’t you calling Liam,” Louis starts at the same time that Niall says, “Louis has something to tell you.”

Zayn looks expectantly at Louis, one of his perfectly trimmed eyebrows rising, and Louis rolls his eyes. “I met someone. I don’t understand why we’re making a fuss about this. Niall is also convinced he’s a serial killer who’ll chop my dick off to sell it to the black market. That’s it. The end.”

Predictably, Zayn looks confused, his golden eyes flitting between the two men annoyed in front of him. Cautiously, he repeats, “You met a serial killer?”

Louis growls in frustration. “I met a man. Boy. Man-boy. He’s not going to fucking kill me–”

“He’s an unstable alpha, Louis!”

“He’s not fucking unstable, Niall! You’ve never even met him!”

“Well, I’m sorry I don’t want to risk my life to talk to your precious boy-toy!”

Before he can do something he’ll regret, Zayn pulls him back, and Louis snarls viciously in the back of his throat.

“Calm down,” Zayn tells him, quiet but scolding. “You, shut up,” he says to Niall, and Niall gulps. He turns to Louis again. “Explain.”

“It’s nothing,” he says slowly, even though to him it’s everything, and that’s a bit silly, innit. They haven’t even said a total of a hundred words to each other. “You know the little cottage at the outskirts of the village?” He waits for Zayn’s nod, and it comes with eyes wide with disbelief. “Yeah, the man who lives there, Harry – we kind of became friends,” he finishes awkwardly. He wouldn’t exactly call himself and Harry friends, not yet at least, but _we sit in silence in his garden every morning as he reads and I stare at him_ might not translate well, he doesn’t think.

Zayn blinks. He looks at Niall, then back at Louis, and blinks again.

“If you say he’s going to kill me,” Louis threatens, “ _I_ am going to kill _you_.”

Carefully, Zayn starts, “You do know Niall wasn’t joking about him being unstable, right?” Louis opens his mouth to cut him off, but Zayn continues, “He might not have done anything yet, but that doesn’t mean he can’t, or won’t.”

“You don’t know him,” Louis tries, because it’s true. The only problem is that Louis doesn’t really know Harry, either.

“I don't,” he allows when Louis’ been silent for too long. “Do you, Lou? I know you’re not going to stop seeing him if we tell you not to but be careful. We’re here for you, you know that.”

Niall nods quietly before, “I’m sorry, about earlier. That was uncalled for.”

Louis sighs, rubbing at his face before looking up at Niall with a small, half-smile. “I’m sorry, too. I’ll be careful,” he says to Zayn. “Promise.”

* * *

Harry looks up with a soft smile and a, “Hi,” when Louis steps foot in the garden, and Louis’ so surprised to hear his voice he trips on his own feet. Bursting into a fit of giggles, Harry presses the laughter into the back of his hand as he wheezes out an, “Are you okay?”

“Hello, Harry,” Louis says, shaking his head before starfishing dramatically on the ground. The grass tickles his neck and ears pleasantly and he closes his eyes. “Fancy seeing you here. I’m doing great, yeah. How are you on this fine morning?”

“You comfortable?” Harry asks around a laugh, high and sweet; Louis never wants to stop listening to it, and Louis snorts.

“Very.” He catches Harry’s eyes, smiles growing wider at the pink dusting Harry’s cheeks.

Harry nods, averting his eyes bashfully, cheeks ruddy and lips a glossy, cherry red that he keeps sucking into his mouth. Settling back comfortably with his book in his lap, Harry smooths out the creases in his night-black oversized hoodie before opening his book where he placed his little, shaped like a sunflower bookmark, and losing himself in a story again.

They don’t talk anymore after, but Louis spends the rest of the day giddy and sated in a way he can’t explain, and his inner wolf is calm for the first time in what feels like forever.

It’s early when he reaches the garden the next morning, earlier than usual. Harry’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bushes, and he smiles when Louis walks in.

“Good morning, Harry,” he says softly. “What are you making?”

There’s a string and carefully picked flowers in his lap, and he grins, catching Louis’ eyes. “Morning, Louis. You want to help?” He looks excited, animatedly so, like making flower crowns in the middle of his little garden when the sun hasn’t even come up yet is more than enough to make him happy.

Louis laughs, his hand scratching at the back of his neck as he plops down onto the damp grass. “I don’t exactly know how to make flower crowns, Harold. I’ll just watch?”

Harry pouts. Louis wants to die, a little.

“No,” he whines, lips still puckered obscenely, “I wanted to make it with you.”

His inner wolf howls happily, and his heart stutters messily in his chest.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Louis nods. “Okay,” he says, scooting closer to Harry when Harry nods back that it’s okay. “Show me how?”

He does, voice a hushed murmur and hands sitting hesitantly over Louis’ to guide when Louis glares at the flowers, confused.

It’s intimate and softly pink, more than Louis wants to think about. Their knees are touching, just barely, and he still feels too far away.

They work silently once Louis catches on, trimming the flowers carefully before passing them to Harry. Harry seems to be holding conversations Louis can’t quite hear with each flower, and it should be weird, but somehow it isn’t, just something else that’s distinctively Harry.

Louis wants to learn each and every one of his quirks, and the thought is a little terrifying so he pushes it to the back of his mind, and instead focuses on the flowers in his now trembling hands.

They run out of flowers, at some point. When Harry goes to pluck some more, Louis watches, and when he apologises and thanks each flower in turn, Louis forces himself to look away.

It’s honestly not as hard as Louis expected flower crown making to be, and he tells Harry so.

Harry beams at him, eyes crinkling into half-moons and dimples Louis wants to poke kissing his cheeks. “Do you like it?” he asks, holding the finished product up for Louis’ inspection like Louis didn’t just help him make it.

Rolling his eyes, Louis plucks the crown from Harry’s hands. He sits up slightly, leaning in to set it on top of Harry’s curls, loose today, and rearranges them gently with careful fingers, muttering, “You know I do,” under his breath.

Louis only remembers himself when Harry’s breath hitches in his throat again, his hands frozen in the air between their bodies.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, stumbling away. Harry doesn’t say anything, still blinking wide eyes at the ground. “Sorry.”

Harry shakes his head, but Louis can tell he’s shaken up. His hands are trembling, just the tiniest bit. Louis wants to hold them in his own until it’s okay again, but he doesn’t.

“It’s okay,” he says with a sniffle before standing up. Just as Louis is about to apologise again, he says, “Does it match? With my clothes, I mean.” He’s fisting the frilly hem of his shorts self-consciously, cherry red nails digging into his off-white over the knee socks, but his shoulders are squared and he’s maintaining eye contact, and Louis wonders if Harry even knows he’s doing it.

Truthfully, the crown doesn’t match, not with the cream, red checkered little jacket he has on. The huge black bow sewed on its front collar matches his short shorts, as do his heeled boots, glossy with a golden bee pendant on their outer sides.

“It does,” Louis says finally, eyeing the neat, rainbow mess of daisies on Harry’s head and stifling a laugh.

Harry scowls. He reaches up to remove the crown from his head, pausing to glare at Louis when he starts laughing.

“It does match,” he swears, before adding, when Harry raises a brow, unconvinced, “in a weird way. It’s not your usual colour combination, sure, but it looks good.” _You look good in everything,_ he thinks but doesn’t say. “I promise.”

“Whatever you say, Lewis,” Harry huffs, but Louis can tell he’s pleased if the soft pink high in his cheeks and the small quirk of his lips are anything to go by.

* * *

Harry never talks about himself. Louis tells him all about his childhood, his mum and siblings, story after little story, and there’s so much _longing_ in his eyes Louis feels so cruel, spilling stories of clumsily happy memories into the hands of a boy painfully yearning, but Harry asks for more stories when Louis pauses for air, and more stories when Louis greets him softly in the mornings, and more, more, _more,_ that Louis wouldn’t say no to him, doesn’t think he can.

He asks, once, a small, innocent inquiry about Harry’s life before he came to the village. Harry shuts down instantaneously, wide green eyes glazing over with a soft, broken fear and pictures so vivid he still sees them when he closes his eyes.

Louis breathes more apologies than he thinks he’s ever said, and Harry doesn’t say another word for the rest of the day.

* * *

“Louis?” Harry asks one morning, and Louis hums, looks up from where he was inspecting the back cover of Harry’s book. “What’s your favourite colour?”

It’s almost shy, his tone of voice. Louis thinks he might want to kiss him.

Softly, Louis says, “Green,” not having to think twice about it. (He liked dark red, he thinks, up until a couple of weeks ago.) “What about you?”

“Blue. A gentle blue, I think,” he says with a bright grin before nodding, amused, at the book Louis’ clutching tightly. “You can borrow it if you want?”

(Louis wants to kiss him.)

* * *

He’s settling in bed when Harry calls. Confused, Louis plugs his phone off the charger and, ignoring that it’s past twelve, accepts the call.

He rubs at his eyes tiredly, blinking twice before pushing the phone against his ear. “Hello?”

Shaky, heavy breaths fill the line instead of a greeting, before a small, scared voice whispers, “Lou?”

“Harry?” he says back with the same urgency, sitting up. The sheets bunch up around his waist, and Louis runs a hand through his hair, still slightly damp from his after-work shower. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Lou,” Harry sobs again, and it sounds like he’s trying to catch his breath. “I’m, I’m sorry. I–”

“Tell me what happened, please,” Louis says as gently as he can, standing up to pace around his room.

Harry breaks out into frustrated tears, and there’s shuffling on the other side of the line like he’s dumping sheets on top of each other. “It’s messy,” he chokes out, distressed voice heavy with tears, “it’s so messy, Lou.”

Louis nods like that makes any sense. “What’s messy, love?”

“It’s messy,” Harry says again, words trembling.

“Okay, that’s okay,” Louis breathes. His wolf is raging in his chest with the desperate need to make it all better, make sure Harry’s okay. “You tried tidying up but it’s still messy?” he asks carefully.

Harry sniffles quietly. “Yes.”

“I don’t think it’s messy, darling. I think you did a wonderful job tidying up.”

It sets Harry into more tears instead of appeasing him, and he hiccups in between wet sobs and pitiful whimpers that Louis shushes softly, whispering reassuring sweet nothings into the phone until Harry’s yawning, and then some.

“It smells wrong,” he whines tiredly, and Louis hears more shuffling over the line. “Lou.”

“I’m here, baby,” he promises, (neither of them noticing the slip up), and Harry whimpers. “Want you to do something for me,” Louis says. “Can you, sweetheart?”

Harry hums. “Can,” he slurs back, and Louis thinks he’s probably more than half asleep.

“I know you can, you’re so good for me. Want you to go to your bedroom, darling. Are you there?”

“Yes, Lou.”

“Good boy.” He’s running on an animalistic instinct to fix what’s wrong that Louis doesn’t realise what he’s asking of Harry when he says, “Do you still have the flower crown we made? Can you get it out?”

There’s a soft noise like little feet pattering against the floor before Harry says, “I got it,” around a yawn.

“Will you lie in bed now? Lie in bed and cover yourself well so you don’t get cold.”

“’Kay.” The bed doesn’t creak under Harry’s weight, not even when he moves around to get more comfortable. “I did, Lou,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

“The crown still smells like me, doesn’t it, baby?” Louis asks. “Can you smell me?”

The scent must be diluted by now, Louis knows, mixed in with the earthy smell of daisies, but he hopes it’s enough, at least for now. Harry hums, sated, and inhales deeply in time with Louis’ soft sigh of relief.

It's short-lived, because before Harry's soft snores fill the line he breathes, "G’night, Alpha,” and it’s only then that it crashes on Louis what asking him to find comfort in his scent means.

* * *

They don’t see each other the next morning. Louis spends the better half of an hour debating whether or not seeing him when he still has a soft-spoken ‘Alpha’ reverberating through his head would be a good idea, and after he decides it’s not and he shouldn’t go, he still finds himself walking the path to the garden.

For the first time in forever, Harry isn’t there when he reaches.

He’s not there every morning for the rest of the week, either. Louis wonders if this is it, if sitting alone together in a tiny house garden is all there is to their story.

He gets more snappish and grumpy with each passing day, and he can’t even explain why, is the thing. It’s not like he and Harry were close – but he still can’t get himself to sleep at night, instead keeps his phone right beside his pillow, his tired eyes scanning the bright screen every few minutes for a text, a call, anything, but nothing ever comes.

Zayn and Niall corner him on the fifth day when he’s pouring yet another cup of tea for himself, and he doesn’t pretend to be happy about it, scowl set on his tired face.

He sighs when he plops down into a chair, the warmth seeping through the cup to his fingertips calming, because he knows they mean well.

“I thought you two hated him,” he says suspiciously because they’ve, surprisingly, only got comforting things to say. “What the fuck?”

There’s a tense silence for a moment, another, before Zayn says, “We saw how happy he made you.”

Louis goes stiff. “It’s _not_ like that,” he growls, pushing the cup of tea to the counter so forcefully it spills everywhere, warm liquid dripping to the floor.

Niall takes a cautious, instinctive step back, and Louis would apologise because he’s being a right dick about the whole thing, but then Zayn says, his tone telling Louis he’s holding himself back from snapping for Niall’s sake, “That’s not what I meant. You smiled more after knowing him than you did since you first came to the village.” He raises a hand to shut Louis up when Louis tries to interrupt. “I’m not saying you were sad. I’m saying you would come from Harry’s glowing. If I didn’t know you’re not into alphas, I would have bet all my money you two have started a family by now.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Niall asks quietly when Louis buries his face in his hands and groans.

Truthfully, he does. He tried bringing it up in one of his calls to his mum but couldn’t figure out how to broach the subject, how to say _I told my alpha friend to snuggle with something drenched in my scent to calm him down when he called crying,_ and _He ended up calling me Alpha and now won’t reply to my texts and I haven’t seen him in a week_.

Still, Louis sighs, shaking his head before looking up at them. “I’m being a dick,” he says. Zayn raises an eyebrow as if to say _go on_. “I’m sorry. It’s probably just a misunderstanding,” he says, wincing inwardly at his own lie, “I’ll work it out. Tell me if I’m being a dick again and I’ll go fuck myself. Sorry, Niall,” he adds, because Zayn still looks unimpressed.

Zayn finally nods, his lips pulling up in a small smile. He drapes himself over Louis in what Louis thinks is supposed to be a cuddle but is more an awkward embrace, because Louis’ still sitting down, but it’s comforting, and he allows himself to sink into it, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

* * *

It’s sweltering hot, surprisingly so.

Niall bangs his head on the counter, and Louis rolls his eyes. “I’m dying.”

"I wouldn't recommend ever visiting the city if this is what heat is for you. You wouldn't make it out alive."

There’s a soft laugh, and Niall turns to glare at the newcomer. “Shut up, Jude.” Louis vaguely knows him, but only because he comes to the pub a lot. “Must be heaven for you, stupid omega bodies always cold.”

Jude squawks, punching Niall’s shoulder, but he doesn’t deny it. “Louis,” he says instead, nodding at him. “You good, mate?”

Nodding back, Louis asks, “Jude. Can I get you anything?”

“Just a beer and some fries would be good, thanks.”

Louis nods again, moving to the back to get started on the fries as Niall and Jude chat aimlessly after he pays. He tunes them out, mind stuck on the one person he’s trying desperately not to think about as his hands work mechanically.

Zayn comes by for the dinner rush, taking his so-called rightful seat at the counter after every customer is served their meals.

It startles Louis when he starts, unprompted, “Any news from your alpha?”

“He’s not my fucking alpha,” Louis says with a sigh that’s really half a growl. “And no. He wasn’t there when I went this morning.”

Humming, he asks, slowly, “Are you sure he’s not in rut?”

Louis pauses. “What?”

“It’s always a possibility he’s in rut and not actually ignoring you, you know?”

Louis just – he doesn’t know why he’s never considered this, why it never even crossed his mind. It _is_ a possibility, Zayn is right.

“Yeah,” he says, even though it doesn’t sit right in his chest and he hates himself for it a little, “maybe.”

Zayn eyes him carefully for a minute but does not say anything.

He rubs his chest with a slightly trembling hand. His inner wolf refuses to calm down.

It’s almost closing time when Niall snaps, “For fuck’s sake, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Louis says immediately. Uneasiness continues to pile up in his chest, making it harder to breathe. His hands are shaky by his sides. “I just – I need some fresh air. I think. Can you lock up for today?”

He thinks he looks a little pathetic because Niall doesn’t hesitate. “Of course, mate. Feel better.”

Louis thanks him, escaping the pub with all his things left behind to walk aimlessly through the little village shops. He’s so lost inside his own head he almost misses it. _Almost_.

Harry’s there, and he looks so helplessly small despite being taller than the strange man in front of him. He’s cowering into himself, trembling shoulders hunched and head bowed in something that’s more terror than submission.

Louis’ stepping in front of him just as the man raises his hand to touch.

“What the fuck?” he says when Louis growls, pushing him off.

Harry whimpers behind him, his dainty hands clinging to Louis’ tank top. Louis reaches a hand behind himself to sit it on Harry’s hip protectively, (possessively).

Louis doesn’t recognize the man, thinks he might be one of the few who stop in the village to rest before heading out on their way the next morning, and he’s so disgustingly drunk he can’t stand straight.

“The bitch is mine,” he slurs, pointing vaguely to Harry. “I found him first.”

“He’s not a bitch, you disgusting piece of shit,” Louis spits back, snarling viciously, adrenaline rushing through his body. “I suggest you leave now or this won’t be ending well.”

The man laughs, and it’s bitter. “What are y’gonna do, tiny?”

Harry’s shaking something awful behind him, like the faulty lines of a telephone wire.

Louis punches him. There’s a crunching sound to replace the laughter, and blood, so much blood. The man howls in pain, falling onto uneven ground and holding his nose as it spills red over his fingers and jaw.

He’s yelling unintelligible profanities when Louis turns around to Harry, who blinks up at him slowly.

“Are you okay?” Louis asks, patting at his face and shoulders and hands, checking for an injury, a touch, anything. “Did he do anything to you? What happened?”

Harry shakes his head, the green of his eyes glazed over.

“Okay, okay. Why are you here? It’s almost midnight! You could’ve gotten yourself killed!”

“’M sorry,” Harry says, whimpering in distress again, voice just barely carrying.

Softly, Louis asks, “What’s wrong, baby?” It has Harry whining, stepping forward when Louis opens his arms for him, and – and. Louis doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it, the flowery smell of heat pungent in the air, and he stumbles a little with Harry clinging to him, his head suddenly spinning.

“Lou,” Harry sobs, digging his nose into Louis’ neck and inhaling deeply, scenting him – he’s scenting him and Louis doesn’t quite remember how to breathe.

Louis pulls at his hair sharply, searching his eyes like they hold answers. “Don’t drop,” he says, begs, the words leaving his mouth before his brain can catch up. “Look at me, baby. I’m here now. Can you stay up with me? Just a little longer, sweetheart, can you do that?”

Harry nods after a minute, but the ‘yeah’ he supplies Louis is far too breathless for him to risk it.

“Can I carry you, Harry? Is that okay?”

He helps him onto his back when Harry nods again, leaning down to collect the two reusable bags discarded on the ground after Harry drowsily confirms they’re his. For once, Louis’ thankful to the tininess of the village he’s still not used to and speed-walks the twenty-minute distance.

Harry’s face is buried in his neck the whole way.

“Darling, can I have your keys? Give me the keys, Harry.”

Harry whines, sniffling. There’s slick running down the back of his thighs and coating Louis’ fingers.

“Harry,” he growls, alpha slipping into his voice as he tries to keep himself in check, doesn’t know how much longer he can hold himself back.

Wordlessly, Harry obeys, sliding the keys from the back pocket of his skin-tight jeans and into Louis’ awaiting hand.

He’s rutting gently against Louis’ back, little unconscious motions of his hips that started midway through their trek and have him shuddering ever so slightly in Louis’ arms and whimpering softly into his neck. Louis curses under his breath, his hand trembling when he slams the key into the lock.

The nest is hard to miss once they’re inside, and Louis practically runs to it. He helps Harry down and onto the neatly folded piles of clothes slowly, growling deep in his chest when Harry clings to his neck, refusing to settle on the mattress.

Softly, he asks, “What’s wrong?” shushing Harry’s soft sobs, rubbing the tears before they can slip past his cheeks.

“’S messy,” he manages, voice small like he’s worried Louis will scold him.

“What’s – your nest? It’s not– hey, look at me.” Harry does, and Louis kisses his forehead before leaning back and catching his eyes again. “It’s not messy, honey,” he promises. “You did such a good job building it, I’m proud of you. I think it looks lovely.”

Harry sags more into him with each little word of reassurance, completely out of it. Louis lowers him onto the nest, frowning when Harry turns onto his tummy before catching on when he gets on his knees.

“Baby, no, wait–” Harry looks up to him confused; a tear slides down his cheek and soaks into pink cotton. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”

He nods, but he still looks far too close to crumbling than Louis knows what to do with. Gently, he pushes loose curls from over Harry’s eyes and tucks them behind his ear before asking, his own chest throbbing, “Do you have someone to spend your heat with? Should I call anyone?”

Harry startles, his breath catching in his throat and dilated pupils shrinking in fear as he scrambles backwards, barely managing to catch himself from falling off the edge of the nest.

“You don’t want me?” he asks, sounding – _resigned_ , almost. His bottom lip is wobbling, his hands shaking, knuckles white where they’re fisting the sheets.

“Of course, I want you,” Louis says immediately, and he _does_. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted something more than to take care of this boy. “But we can’t,” he murmurs, gentler, “we should’ve talked about this before. I’m not going to take advantage of you, not when you’re this vulnerable, not ever.”

“Is there someone I should call?” he says again when Harry nods, blinking doe eyes at him.

Harry shakes his head ‘no’, and Louis nods, breathing out as something coiling hot in his chest unfurls. “Come here, baby. Come up here.”

Clumsily, Harry does so, shuffling back to the middle of his nest where Louis first put him. He melts when Louis lightly touches his hip, going pliant instead of trying to present himself again.

“I’m going to set out the food for you on the bedside table,” he says, alpha voice leaving Harry supple and agreeing to his every word, “and you’re going to drink a bottle of water and eat something between each wave. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Alpha.” His voice is airy yet slurred, and Louis is surprised he hasn’t started humping the bed yet.

“Good boy,” Louis praises in a whisper, Harry purring into the warmth of his hand when it cradles his face. He kisses Harry’s forehead softly before saying, dejectedly, “I need to leave now, baby.”

Harry whines, shaking his head. “Will you,” he starts, his mind too hazy to process what it is he’s asking but wanting it desperately all the same, “leave your hoodie here? Please,” he adds when Louis’ eyes widen in surprise, the blue shrinking behind dilating black.

He says, “Are you sure,” but he’s already pulling it off and over his head, passing it to Harry who buries his face in it, inhales sharply. His ‘thank you’ is swallowed between the folds of the hoodie and a whimper, high and needy, desperate.

Louis needs to leave _now_.

“Please,” Harry whines wetly, grabbing at Louis’ undershirt when he backs away.

“We can’t, baby,” he says again, loosening Harry’s grip gently and reaching out to wipe at a stray tear. “Remember what I told you.” He kisses Harry’s cheek before standing, ignoring that he’s throbbing in his jeans.

He stays only long enough to set the water bottles and snacks on the bedside table placed conveniently close to the nest before he leaves.

It doesn’t stop Harry’s high-pitched whimpers and trembling pleas from playing in his head on his way back to his house, the way his breath hitched in his throat over and over again making Louis’ nails dig half-moons into his palms under the icy water of the shower.

* * *

Grass blades breaking under the soles of Louis’ Converse make Harry’s head snap up sharply, Louis worries he’s hurt himself, but despite the terror blatantly present in his eyes he doesn’t run, just pushes his legs closer to his chest, wrapping his trembling hands around them.

He doesn’t say anything when Louis cautiously makes to sit in what has become his spot, not quite sure if he’s welcome anymore. Louis can smell the citrusy odour of anxiety dirtying his otherwise neutral scent, and it makes his stomach flip unpleasantly.

Harry clinches his hands into fists.

“I can go if you want,” Louis starts quietly, hesitantly. Harry’s eyes turn to him, panicked, and Louis’ so terribly confused but he adds, hastily, “I don’t want to. But if you don’t want me here,” and stops, making a vague motion with his hand to say _I’ll leave you alone._

Slowly, Harry nods. He looks like he’s trying to process what Louis said, and then he nods again.

It’s quiet for a moment before he says, “Stay?”

“Are you sure?” Louis asks softly, because Harry looks so tiny where he’s tucked in an oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, his hair a tangled mess that he keeps brushing his quivering fingers through. Louis wants to hide him under his shirt to keep him safe from whatever it is haloing his drooping eyes with black. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Please?”

“Okay,” he breathes back. It sounds like a promise.

Fear ebbs from the air gently as Louis talks nonsense and Harry listens, not once cutting off to add commentary of his own. He thinks Harry might drop but doesn’t ask, doesn’t question the glazed over eyes or the fire-hydrant red cheeks as not to startle him.

“Lou,” Harry finally whispers, midway through Louis’ recount of Zayn forcing him to paint with him when Louis got too fidgety, and it’s far too breathy Louis’ nerves stand on alert. He looks like he’ll fall asleep, but his eyes are scared again like he’s not really sure what’s going on. “Can I, um. Is it okay if you come closer?”

His inner alpha pushes him close before Louis can think on it, only being marginally soothed when their thighs are pressed together and Harry’s head is resting on his shoulder.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he admits quietly, voice small and words punctuated with the tiniest whimper.

“Do you trust me?” Louis asks, because he’s expected as much; saw it in the panic weighing Harry’s slim shoulders down. Harry nods, a tiny movement of his head, and Louis accepts it gratefully. “Let go,” he coaxes, gentle blue calming the frantic green of Harry’s eyes. “I have you, I promise; let go, baby.”

Harry breathes deeply when Louis pulls him to his lap, presses his nose to the junction of his neck where his heart beats. His whine is syrupy and pressed to the golden of Louis’ skin, body falling pliant when Louis leans down to scent him.

“Lou.”

* * *

Soft sunlight filters through the window to caress Harry’s face softly, and gentle fingers are scratching soothingly at his scalp, tangling in his hair. His nose twitches where it’s pressed to warm skin, and he tucks himself closer to a sunny chest, humming happily in the back of his throat when the arm wrapped around him tightens.

“Go back to sleep, baby boy,” he hears, a soft rumble that’s a little like a warm blanket, pastel pink and sheltering.

Harry lets out a soft and sleepy hum, smacking his lips. He feels content, safe, for the first time in a long, long time.

He falls back to sleep and the calming tugs at his hair don’t stop.

* * *

They don’t talk about it. When Harry finally emerges from his drop, he takes a quick, scalding hot shower while Louis makes them steaming cups of tea. Silently, they sip small sips that burn the tips of their tongues and sneak bashful glances when the other isn’t looking, pretending what happened earlier didn’t.

Louis soaks in water so hot it burns when he goes back home, but Harry’s scent still lingers, flowers and strawberry and something soft and sweet and like home.

“Good morning,” Niall says sceptically the next morning. He’s early, but Louis is, too.

“Morning,” he murmurs tiredly around the rim of his mug, steam hitting his face nonstop. It’s soothing, somehow, so he doesn’t pull back.

When Niall’s question comes, it’s almost twenty minutes of quietness later, and he pauses from where he’d been chopping tomatoes to ask, “How is Harry?”

Louis looks up from his own chopping board, startled. “He’s okay,” he says slowly. Then, “He – dropped. I was with him, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I wouldn’t make it to work.”

There’s a small crease between Niall’s eyebrows, but he finds his knife and starts dicing veggies again, pepper this time. “It takes a lot for an alpha to drop,” he muses, almost thinking out loud. Louis is grateful he didn’t comment on it, the absurdity of the situation. “Is it too different from an omega drop?”

Knives sliding on chopping boards are the only noise for a minute, another, before Louis slams the knife on the counter and, ignoring Niall jumping out of his skin and the ‘What the fuck, mate?’ thrown at him, drops the heavy load of his body in the chair closest to him.

“Harry’s an omega,” he says, muffled slightly by his small hands covering his face.

Niall doesn’t say anything for a long while.

Slowly, he drags a chair closer to Louis and sits, waits for Louis to look at him. “Your omega?”

Louis sighs before shaking his head ‘no’.

“Tell me about him?” Niall murmurs gently into the quietness of the bar, almost as warm as the pale blue of his eyes, expression open.

“He’s, well. He’s all soft, like? All soft and pretty and lovely.” His lips pull up into a smile that has Niall grinning slightly in soft amusement, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“He–” Louis rolls his eyes, face going red and eyes glimmering. He shakes his head. “You’re a twat,” he says to Niall, because there are so many little, lovesick words bubbling up like fresh honey in his chest, and he feels so warm; he doesn’t know how to explain it out loud.

Niall coos, and Louis only flips him off when he points out his flushed cheeks. It makes him cackle, and Louis hits him on the back once, twice, as the first customer walks in, yelling at him to get to work.

Orders are barely served on time thanks to their lack of preparation, but Louis feels lighter, and the smile crinkling his eyes might not be as wide as Niall’s, but it’s there.

Zayn takes one look at him and drags him through the back door and into the chilling night air.

“Spill,” he says.

Louis grins, and Zayn’s eyes widen with surprise when he kisses his cheek. “I think I’m halfway in love,” he says simply, and he feels giddy like children on Christmas morning.

“Harry?” Zayn asks, but it’s not really a question.

Louis’ cheeks ache with the force of his smile, and he tucks his face into Zayn’s neck when Zayn pulls him into a hug. “Harry.”

* * *

“I moved here two years ago,” Harry starts quietly, unprompted. His hands are clenching and unclenching their grip on his dress overalls, but his shoulders are square, expression set. “I presented late, at eighteen – as, well. You know.” He gulps, Louis’ eyes following the harsh bob of his Adam’s apple before looking up to catch Harry’s eyes again.

“I wasn’t supposed to,” he struggles, exhaling shakily. His sunshine yellow painted fingernails are digging half-moons into his palms, but Louis doesn’t think he’s noticed he’s doing it.

Harry’s quiet for a long while, before he says, “Can you – will you, um.”

“Will I what,” Louis prompts, gentle, like his heart isn’t lurching in his chest in time with his inner alpha’s growling, and he knows he’ll say yes. He’ll always say yes to this boy.

“Ask me,” says Harry finally. “Ask me?” he repeats, more hesitantly this time.

Louis nods, says, “Alright.” He can see it will hurt, no matter how he phrases the question, and the words leave a sick feeling in his stomach before they even escape his mouth. “Why weren’t you supposed to present as an omega?”

Flinching like a wilting, lone flower against a storm, Harry manages, “I was supposed to be the alpha heir to the pack. My dad – um, the pack’s Alpha – thought I’d present as an alpha. There was no other option, you know? The heir had to be a male alpha,” he says, grimacing like both words don’t sit right in his mouth, “and I only have one older sister. So it had to be me.

“I was raised as an alpha. They taught me the ins and outs of courting, ruts, fighting, the lot.” He’s flailing a hand around as he speaks, his eyes glazing over, and Louis traces the motion as things click into place in his head.

“Is that why you didn’t know you were dropping?”

A hot pink blush spreads over Harry’s face in time with the spicy smell of embarrassment filtering through the air, and he nods, says, “I had to figure out heats on my own. I still don’t really understand them, to be honest.” He doesn’t need to add that they terrify him. Louis can see it all over his face.

Harry smiles, and – he looks so _small_ , like a little kid. “When I presented, my dad was furious,” he whispers, soft and so far away. He tucks his legs to his chest, setting his cheek on his knee and closing his eyes. His hands are shaking. “Mummy packed me a little bag and snuck me out.” His voice is thick with tears that clump his eyelashes, and he swats at them without opening his eyes. “She calls, once a month, because she knows if she doesn’t, I won’t either,” he breathes, his voice cracking.

And it just – it’s a lot.

“I miss her.”

He looks _so_ young, so scared, and he’s quietly crying now, warm tears collecting at the sharp line of his jaw.

“You’re so stupid,” he says, looking up and smiling. It doesn’t look like a smile at all, just a small, anguished pull of his lips upwards. “You keep coming back and coming back and coming back – I went into heat right in front of you and you still came back. Why do you keep coming back?”

It _hurts_ , how drenched his voice and eyes are with genuine confusion. He’s still crying, and Louis’ chest aches.

“Can I come closer,” Louis asks, a little selfishly. He needs him pressed against his chest to calm his wolf and the frantic beating of his heart. “Please, baby.”

“You’re so stupid,” Harry says again even as he nods, keeps repeating it into the golden skin of Louis’ neck as he struggles to breathe through snot and tears and his own confusion. “You’re so stupid. Please don’t leave.”

“I’ll never,” Louis promises, holding Harry tighter. “I won’t leave you, I promise.”

Harry sobs and Louis can feel it, how scared he is, not of Louis or his father, but of his own self.

“I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to be an omega. I wanted him to be proud of me. I didn’t want it, Louis.” He’s clawing at Louis’ skin to ground himself, blubbering words over and over like he’s begging Louis to believe him, like any of it is his fault.

Louis just holds him tight, because there's nothing else he can do, tighter like if he holds tight enough he'll be able to keep him safe under golden skin.

* * *

“Tea?” Harry asks softly, turning to look at Louis on his way to his tiny kitchen.

Louis smiles. “I’d love some, thank you.”

For a house that looks incredibly small on the outside, Harry’s cottage is more spacious on the inside than Louis thought it could be. He didn’t really get the chance to take it in the last two times he was here, too focused on his omega’s needs. Paintings of fresh fruit and blooming flowers hang neatly on the walls, small photographs sitting in between them.

Louis takes it all in – the rainbow-coloured fairy lights, how flowers seem to be growing in every place they can, the soft, pink aesthetic of the room, cushions and little tables and white wooden chairs all matching, all looking dainty somehow. He didn't notice it all the first time he was here, how royal the place looks, delicate, and adds to the enigma that Harry is.

Louis wants to know every little thing about him, wants to whisper sweet nothings against his mouth.

Carefully, Harry walks back towards him, the tray in his hands holding two steaming mugs of tea and a small plate of fresh cookies.

Louis thanks him again when Harry sets it on the table before taking a seat on the loveseat next to him. A soft tune Louis doesn’t recognise plays on the record player, Harry humming along with it as he cradles his cup with hands so soft looking and elegant. Blowing on his tea, Louis takes a small sip before breaking into a smile.

“How did you know I like it this way?”

Harry blushes, hides a smile in his cup. “You’ve said,” he murmurs, “before. That Niall made it wrong then dumped it all in the sink when you wouldn’t drink it?”

Louis’ surprised expression sours when Harry says, seriously, “You drink it wrong, by the way. Who adds milk to their tea?”

“I’ll have you know,” Louis spits, mock offended, smiling when Harry giggles, “tea without milk is just water and _leaves_ – who in their right mind drinks that?”

“Me,” Harry deadpans. Louis gasps.

He leans closer, brushes a hand over Harry’s loose curls, his wolf purring when Harry leans into it instead of pushing away. “Get well soon,” he says, petting him gently as Harry shakes with laughter underneath his fingertips.

“Lou?” Harry whispers an hour or so later, making Louis look up from the book he was reading, one about two men falling in love over postcards in a little faraway island that Harry lent him.

Nodding at Harry’s hands clutched behind his back, he asks, “What’ve you got there?”

“Will you, erm.” He sits three bottles of nail polish on the coffee table in front of him before starting again, more confidently, “What colour do you think fits better?”

Louis examines him, the creamy silk shirt dipping over his shoulders and the patterned pants, the pearls looped around his neck.

“Where is the rest of your collection?” he asks finally when Harry starts squirming under the intensity of his gaze.

If he’s surprised by the question, he doesn’t show it, but he does look confused, adorably so.

Pointing to the general direction of his bedroom with one hand and taking Louis’ with the other, turning away before he can notice the blush rising on Louis’ cheeks, Harry leads them to rows of nail polish organised by colour on creamy white wall racks.

“Here,” he says softly.

The weight of Harry’s hand in his feels right, grounding, and Louis nods, studies the shelves before leaning closer and picking two colours out.

“These,” he says, frowning. “And the blue and green ones. I’ll paint them for you?”

Harry gapes at him, green eyes going wide and mouth dropping open.

Hesitantly, he asks, “Are you sure?”

Louis smiles the gentlest he can at him, brings his shaking hand to his lips and pressing a lone, soft kiss to Harry’s knuckles. “Of course, love. Let’s go back to the other room?”

Harry’s almost in a daze as he follows, Louis dragging him with him and watching as he spills himself carefully into the love seat, his shoulders straight, head raised high but hands trembling. The paint is cool on Harry’s nails when Louis brushes it with even, practised strokes.

A new song starts in the background, and Louis rambles lowly over it, murmuring whatever comes to his mind. Harry comes back to himself slowly, blinks doe, glazed over eyes and focuses his attention on the words spilling from Louis’ mouth.

“Switch, darling,” Louis says, making Harry blink again. When he processes the request, he switches hands, his wolf purring at Louis’ soft, “Thank you.”

When Louis is done blowing warm puffs of air on both hands, he says, “There you are,” and Harry preens, cherry red bow lips crinkling his eyes when they stretch. Louis wants to kiss his dimples.

“Thank you.” He looks so, _so_ happy, and Louis would’ve played it off with anyone else but he can only imagine how much this means to Harry, doesn’t think he would sit someone down and offer to paint their nails in the first place.

“Anytime,” he tells him. “Will you do mine now?”

It’s the right thing to say if Harry’s determined nod and the way he sprints to his room and comes back with a bottle of lilac polish in his hand is anything to go by. His brush strokes are shakier than Louis’ were, and Louis wonders if he’s ever done this to someone other than himself before.

He curses when the pale violet spills messily over golden skin, sticks his tongue out in concentration as he wipes it off before painting the nail again. Louis lets it happen, watching Harry’s face expressions instead of his nails.

(He thinks he trusts this boy with his life, and it’s not as scary a thought as he thinks it should be.)

When a curl slips over Harry’s eyes, he frowns and shakes his head. Louis pushes it back for him without much thought, and Harry only hums, leans closer.

* * *

The first thing Louis notices is that Harry’s hair is sopping wet, droplets of water racing past the bridge of his nose, and that he’s naked under a fluffy purple robe that reaches his knees. Holding back a groan and pretending his hands aren’t tingling with the need to touch, Louis pushes past him and into the cottage, smiling to himself when Harry says, “Do you like cookies? There’s a batch in the oven.”

“Chocolate chip?” Louis asks, slipping his Vans off and sitting them by the door. When Harry takes too long to respond, Louis turns to look at him and is met with an apologetic wince. “Please tell me you didn’t bake raisin cookies.”

Harry smiles sheepishly, plays with the rings on his fingers as bright red fills his cheeks. “I did make some chocolate chip ones but I’ve yet to put them in the oven,” he tries, his cheeks getting darker as the silence stretches.

Louis sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “First tea with no milk and now raisin cookies?” He’s stalling, he knows he is, because now Harry’s done rolling his eyes at his antics and has started drying his hair – but his robe is tied too loose and his collar bones are peaking out, the swallows printed under them contrasting sinfully with his milky white skin.

Harry leaves him in the hall to check on the cookies, and Louis is thankful for it, doesn’t know if he could’ve stopped himself from doing something stupid.

The raisin cookies are _good_ , Louis admits begrudgingly, pointedly ignoring Harry’s smirk when he scratches his neck and asks for more than the one he’s offered.

“No,” Harry says, and he’s still in his fucking robe and Louis wants to lick into his mouth until he’s whimpering against Louis’ lips and begging for more. “You disrespected the raisins; you don’t get more.” He’s so ridiculous, is the thing, and Louis thinks he’s maybe in love with him. Just a little.

“Harry,” Louis groans, pouting. He feels pathetic. “Give me more cookies.”

“Say please.”

Louis catches his eyes, fiery blue against mischievous green.

He wants so much he can feel his heart in his throat, and it’s so loud, beating, _beating_ , he wonders if Harry can hear it too.

“No,” he breathes. Maybe Harry wouldn’t push him away if Louis tried to kiss him.

The proximity must be getting to him, or maybe it’s that his robe is slipping past his shoulders now, bunching up on his elbows, because when Harry says, “No cookies, then,” it’s far too airy, too close to a whine than anything else.

It snaps Louis out of his reverie, though, and he pulls back like he’s been burned – but then _Harry_ is pulling him against him, bending his knees the tiniest bit so Louis wouldn’t have to stand on his tiptoes. It’s not a kiss, far from, just a tight, desperate embrace between friends under twinkling fairy lights in a tiny kitchen.

His nose is buried against Louis’ neck, but he’s holding his breath, trembling a little. Louis tightens his arms around him.

“Go on, pup. It’s okay.”

He digs blunt fingernails into Harry’s shoulder blades in time with Harry’s content purring, breathing Louis in, pulls him closer to his chest.

Harry replaces the tray in the oven when they separate, his face blushed red and eyes slightly unfocused and refusing to meet Louis’. They eat raisin cookies and drink milk-free tea as a movie neither of them watches plays on the TV, and they don’t talk about it.

“Harry,” Louis says an hour or so later, looking up with bleary eyes from the book sitting snugly in his lap.

There’s a frown on Harry’s face when he tucks a finger in between the pages and closes his own book, turns to Louis. “Yeah?” He’s changed into beige gabardine wool shorts that reach mid-thigh and a half sleeve crop top with flower prints that match the red of his nails printed on before the movie, but Louis is focused on the length of his legs sprawled over the arm of the sofa.

They’re bare and milky white and lovely, and they look so soft, so smooth.

Instead of saying, “ _Can I touch?_ ” Louis pats the free spot next to him, says, “Come here.”

Harry does. He sits on the sofa with careful elegance Louis now knows is taught, leaves a respectable amount of distance between them.

He’s looking at Louis with wide, confused eyes, his hand loose on the book in his lap.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, voice quivering with a timidity Louis hates, when Louis stares for too long without saying anything.

Louis, of course, attempts to fix the situation by making it worse. “My friends want to meet you,” he blurts, wincing sharply when Harry tenses, his fingers tightening in a death grip over his book. He wants to swallow the words back, curses himself inwardly with every shake of Harry’s hands.

Zayn _told_ him this is a bad idea.

“You don’t have to,” he tries to say, terrified he’s ruined everything, but Harry cuts him off with, “Do they, Louis, really?”

It’s sharp, piercing, and he’s never heard Harry like this before he’s so taken aback.

“Yeah,” he says, brows furrowing, “why wouldn’t they?”

Harry laughs, slightly hysterical. “They do, don’t they? Your friends want to meet this shutoff _weirdo_ who hasn’t spoken to anyone in near two years?–”

“Harry–”

“This, this crazy dangerous alpha who came to town to kill everyone? Who killed his sister or whatever the fuck this stupid fucking town loves to talk about–”

He’s crying, now, fat tear-drops sticking messily to the sharp line of his jaw when they drop.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says, his inner alpha whining lowly in distress, his hands reaching towards Harry, a futile attempt to make things better. Harry recoils sharply, his muscles jumping under Louis’ fingers, the book falling to the floor with a soft thump. His eyes widen when he notices what he did, looking up to catch the hurt flashing in Louis’ eyes before he can bury it away.

His body freezes, and it takes Louis a moment to realise that the bright red blotching Harry’s cheeks isn’t solely a factor of his outburst, because there’s the spicy smell of embarrassment filling the air.

And, _no_.

“Come here,” he says again, pulling Harry closer, tucking him in his lap, against his chest. He’s still blubbering, Harry is, apologising, clutching at Louis’ clothes like his life depends on it.

“I didn’t have friends,” he’s saying around a whimper, “before. I never – I don’t know how–”

Louis holds him closer, tucks his head under his jaw and whispers sweet little nothings into his hair. “You’re okay. It’s okay, baby.”

Harry’s shaking his head ‘no’ when Louis tugs gently at his hair and cradles his face in both hands, thumbing at the hot tears spilling over his flushed cheeks.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, warm puffs of air hitting his lips as Harry tries to even his breathing; “You’re okay. It’s only me, you’re okay.”

Harry whimpers, a tiny, distressed noise in the back of his throat, and Louis holds him even closer, pushing their foreheads together and rubbing his nose gently against Harry’s.

“You have me, always. Breathe, baby boy.”

The green of Harry’s eyes is blurred with their closeness, messy shades freckled with a muted gold. His hand presses over the frantic rabbiting of Louis’ heart and expanding lungs, and he inhales shakily, slowly, in time with the rise and fall of Louis’ chest.

“I’m okay,” he whispers after one last deep breath, retracting his hand to set it over Louis’ that’s still cupping his face, and closes his eyes.

There are flecks of tears clumping his eyelashes that Louis leans back slightly to wipe away instead of licking them off like he wants to. He’s not sure that’s okay, not yet. Harry’s eyelashes flutter under the soft touch of his fingertips, and he blinks once, twice.

Their gazes hold for a long moment, and Louis thinks the world is holding its breath but maybe that’s just him – because his chest is tightening, and it’s probably the lack of air, or maybe the overwhelming need to kiss Harry deep and sweet and reassuring.

Harry’s eyes fall downwards, and his face is so close his little nose keeps bumping gently, bashfully, against Louis’ own.

Louis falls forward with Harry’s desperate tug at the collar of his shirt, catching the hazy green of his eyes again.

He leans upwards, kisses his forehead, his nose, the blushed apples of his cheeks and his jaw, grinning when Harry giggles, soft and shyly pink against Louis’ lips. “Next time,” he murmurs teasingly, like the fear as striking as star constellations in Harry’s eyes isn’t tightening his ribs around the urgent beating of his heart.

(It sounds like hope.)

* * *

“I _told_ you not to sit on the counter," Louis is saying, and he thinks Zayn stopped listening to his grumbling a while ago because he’s only humming randomly now, his little hums not quite fitting in the right places. “You're not even listening to me, are you? Why wasn’t Niall dragged into this with you, _Zaaayn_ –”

“Because,” Zayn says around the cigarette in his mouth, and, oh, apparently he’s been listening, “you’re my best friend.” Louis’ heart doesn’t have time to swell before Zayn adds, “And this is your fault.”

“It is not!” he squawks. If Zayn wasn’t driving, he would’ve hit him. “If you weren’t sitting on the counter like I told you not to, you wouldn’t have gotten burned.”

“With the coffee that you spilled.”

Louis turns back to staring at the fields passing through the passenger seat window, scowling. “Why are we going skirt shopping at seven in the morning, again?”

Zayn sighs. “Because,” he says again, “the doctor said I can’t wear my jeans.” He cuts off Louis’ ‘but you already have skirts!’ with, “We’re almost there, stop pouting.”

He wasn’t, but now Louis does pout. “Shut up.”

He knows he’s being a shit, and even though he really does want to go see Harry he’s really missed Zayn, feels like he hasn’t seen him in ages as opposed to Harry and Niall who he sees almost every day.

The ten minutes left of the ride blur past in a whirlwind of too loud music and cigarette smoke that Louis glares at until Zayn concedes and stubs his cigarette out. When he parks, the car makes a creaky noise of protest, obviously too old and worn out and in desperate need of repair, but Zayn just pats at the wheel like it’s his child.

The shopping street they walk through is fairly empty; Louis wonders if that’s why Zayn insisted they come so early. Little shops are stuffed next to each other, bright colours and shopkeepers with smiles that crinkle their eyes everywhere.

It’s all so ethereal, looks something out of a fairy tale; Louis has never seen anything like it in the city. The ground is creamy white blocks tucked in messy rows and the sky is a bright, happy blue over their heads. Soft sunlight creeps through the cracks in the leaves of randomly scattered trees and flower petals to warm them up against the gentle coolness of the air.

He follows Zayn’s lead to a small shop at the corner of the street with black leather jackets hanging on the display window. There’s a man behind the till who greets Zayn by name, and Zayn nods at him in turn before dragging Louis to the back of the shop.

Skirts of all designs and sizes sit displayed, and Louis takes the time to look around as Zayn scrutinises the items with sharp golden eyes and furrowed eyebrows. He doesn’t really need any new clothes, and by the time Zayn comes to find him with a shopping bag in his hand he’s rifling through a pile of shirts with no intention of buying any.

“Zay,” he says when they step out, Zayn throwing a goodbye to the cashier over his shoulder, “I’m not going anywhere else before I have a cuppa.”

Zayn raises an unimpressed eyebrow before rolling his eyes. “There’s a small café just to the side there,” he says, Louis following the point of his finger. “Their cookies are good.”

“Raisin?” Louis asks without thinking, already walking towards the shop with Zayn in tow.

Zayn pauses. “ _You_ want raisin cookies?”

His eyes widen a little, ears flushing bright red. “They’re not that bad,” he mumbles, ignoring the disbelief on Zayn’s face as he pushes the glass door open, a small bell tinkling over his head.

“Since when do you eat raisin cookies?” he says, and there’s a tiny bit of surprise still in his tone but it also sounds like he’s figuring it out. “Did Harry–”

“Shut up,” Louis says quickly, embarrassed. “Harry didn’t do anything.”

The only people in the line are a mother and her son, thankfully, and Louis hurries to stand behind them while Zayn turns to save a table for them, a smirk playing at his lips.

“So,” he starts after Louis sets the tray on the table carefully before taking his seat across from him. Louis groans. “What about Harry?”

To avoid answering, Louis takes a big gulp of his tea, foregoing blowing on it and regretting it immediately when the drink burns his tongue and throat as it goes down.

Zayn only looks amused. He looks down at the fresh raisin cookie and scone still on the tray before catching Louis’ glare again.

It seems to delight him, Louis’ embarrassment, and he sips his tea slowly, obviously waiting for Louis to speak.

“He knows to stay out of things that aren’t his business,” Louis grumbles, scowling. Zayn grins.

“You’re my best friend. Your love life _is_ my business.”

That kind of is true, now that Louis thinks about it. He sighs. “He likes baking. He likes baking raisin cookies, to be exact. I don’t think he runs out of them. He’s a good baker and they’re good. It’s all endearing and stupid. Stop looking at me like that.”

Zayn takes a small sip of his tea. “You’re in love,” he whispers like it’s a revelation. Louis wants to hit him on his pretty face.

Instead, he stuffs the cookie in his mouth and grimaces. Harry’s are way better.

“I wouldn’t call it that,” he says, raising a hand self-consciously to cover his mouth as he chews. “We haven’t even kissed.”

“But you want to,” Zayn says, not missing a beat. Louis hates him a little for making it all sound so easy.

“I do,” he says after taking another sip of his tea. “He doesn’t.”

Sobering up, Zayn asks, “Did he say that?”

“Well, no, but.” He pauses, finishes the rest of his cookie under Zayn’s watchful eyes. “He didn’t really have any friends, before. So, I guess – I don’t think jumping into a relationship is what he needs right now.”

“Louis,” Zayn chastises, tone disapproving. He reminds Louis of Jay sometimes, with the way they both call him out on his bullshit. “It’s not up to you to decide what he needs. He’s an adult. He can do that himself. Let’s go?” Louis hears, gentler, after a long moment of silence. He nods, wiping at his hands and mouth with a lemon-scented wet wipe before straightening up and pushing the plush chair into its place. “There’s just one other shop I want to go to,” Zayn says when the door snicks shut gently behind them. There are noticeably more people filling the streets than there was before their breakfast break.

Louis nods.

It takes them less than fifteen minutes to be out of the shop again, Zayn not finding anything he likes.

He smooths out the wrinkles in the black skirt he’s wearing before turning to Louis. “You want anything? Or should we leave?”

Distracted, Louis only nods. He turns to Zayn, points vaguely behind him. “Wanna check that out?”

The shop is just a small thing, squeezed in the middle between a tiny bookshop and a flower shop. Louis’ vision is obscured by the sun washing a glowing white over the glass window, but the items he can see look small and dainty, precious – and they remind him of Harry.

Zayn shrugs. “Sure.”

When they walk in, warm air greets him. Louis smiles softly, eyeing the little racks and sparing the soft blue painted walls a quick look. He’s left to roam around on his own while Zayn goes to check the rows of nail varnish tucked further inside the shop. Soft garments of clothing are hung neatly, and Louis runs his fingers over them. There are shelved books and jars filled with sparkling pink and purple stars, as well as small flower pots, the petals glittering with tiny droplets of water.

The place is full with delicate little trinkets and soft pinks, and it makes something syrupy sweet bubble up in Louis’ chest. He thinks Harry would love to come here, tells himself he’ll bring him here someday. He’s eyeing a small, boxed set of jewellery when someone comes up beside him and clears their throat.

Louis turns expectantly, eyebrows rising instinctively, and nods. It’s a little girl, no older than six or seven, and she eyes him with a quirk in her eyebrows and pursed lips as her hand reaches up to push her golden hair off of her eyes.

“Are you an alpha, sir?” It’s blunt and curious and innocent – and rude, terribly so, but he doesn’t think lecturing is what the girl needs right now. He crouches down on his knees so his blue eyes are level with her sparkling brown ones and nods again.

“I am,” he says.

She looks confused. For a minute, she eyes him sceptically, before her hands come up to cover her mouth when she gasps. “Are you a fake alpha?” she whispers, erupting a surprised laugh from Louis.

“I’m not quite sure what that is,” he murmurs, matching her tone of voice, “but no, I don’t think so, love.”

The confused pout is back again. “Why are you here, then? This place is for omegas.”

Louis’ smile softens around the edges. “Is it?” The girl nods her head ‘yes’ quickly. He asks, “What made you think that?”

Blinking wide eyes at him, she stammers, her brows furrowing slightly when it looks like she’s not sure anymore herself. “It’s soft,” she finally decides, “and pink. And they sell pretty stuffs. Alphas are not pretty.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Louis says, grinning when she lights up. She’s giddy when she walks closer so he can whisper in her ear. “Both alphas and omegas can be pretty. You know why?” Her eyes are wide, and she shakes her head slowly, looking at him helplessly. “Because everyone can be what they want to be. If you wanted to wear a dress, and someone told you that you can’t, would that be fair?”

She’s facing him again now, and Louis pauses until she says, “No.”

“So if you told alphas they can’t be pretty or wear soft, pink things, would that be fair?”

She deflates a little. “But grandma said only omegas can be pretty.”

Silently, Louis curses said grandma. “I’ll tell you what,” he says out loud, “if you present as an alpha, would you want people to tell you you can’t wear pink?”

“Of course not!” she says, louder than necessary in the quietness of the place. She pauses, eyes the pink polka-dotted dress she has on. “So everyone can do what they want?”

It doesn’t really sound like a question, more like a statement, but Louis nods anyway, feeling ridiculously proud, and she nods back determinedly.

“You’re a pretty alpha, sir,” she decides, flashing him a toothy grin, and when she leans in for a hug Louis gives it to her happily, his smile soft against the golden of her hair.

“Should we go find your mummy, then?” he asks, tightening his arms around her once before letting go.

It seems to startle her a little, the gently-put question, like she forgot she’s here with someone. She looks lost suddenly, scared, and Louis feels a gentle ache in his chest that he chooses to ignore.

“Hey,” he says, straightening up and taking her hand in his. “It’s okay, love. We’ll find your mummy, promise.”

She clings to him until they spot a young-looking beta searching around frantically, and then she runs. The smile on Louis’ face is drooping a little as he watches, as he reassures the mother that her child was no trouble.

When he turns away, he rubs at his chest with a trembling hand.

* * *

Louis finds Zayn a little while later. He’s outside, leaning slightly against the glass window of the shop and smiling at whatever he’s hearing with his phone tucked against his ear. He only nods distractedly at him, not even eyeing the pink bag in his hand, and Louis rolls his eyes.

He snatches the phone from Zayn’s hand when he gets closer, ignoring Zayn’s shrieked ‘hey!’ and pressing it against his ear.

“Zay–?”

“Hullo, Liam,” Louis says loudly. Zayn huffs but falls into step next to him without attempting to take his phone back.

Liam sighs softly. “Hi, Lou. Did something happen..?”

“No,” he says, knowing how annoying he’s being, “your precious alpha is alright. _But_ , Liam, he’s on a date with me right now. So if you could kindly fuck off back to your studies that would be amazing. Promise I won’t fuck him. Or kiss him.” He pauses and then shrugs. “Unless he tries to kiss me, then I won’t say no to kisses from a pretty boy – ouch!”

Zayn doesn’t look impressed, or apologetic, not in the slightest. He ignores Louis glaring daggers through his skull and rubbing at his side where Zayn pinched him in favour of stealing the phone back.

“Hi, Li,” he breathes. Louis wants to gag.

He ends up having to cut the call short when they get to the car, promises to call back later tonight and whispers an ‘I love you’ before hanging up.

Louis doesn’t tease him for it, just shoots Harry a text asking what he’s doing and if he’s had a good day before locking his phone again.

* * *

He goes home to Harry after stopping to drop the gift bag in his house, and fits himself clumsily into Harry’s arms without a word, sighing into his neck. He smells like strawberries and cookie dough, and it’s comforting in a way Louis doesn’t try to explain. Harry holds him, shuffles them over slowly from the doorway to the couch.

Louis feels like shit. _He_ should be the one holding Harry, petting his hair like Harry is doing now and murmuring sweet nothings into milky white skin, but he feels tiny, and he wants to go back in time and keep Harry happy, always, ridiculously so.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Harry whispers into his hair, kissing the top of his head when Louis shakes it and shuffles closer so he’s practically in his lap, his nose wedged against Harry’s collarbone. Harry presses the lines of his favourite poem into the chestnut of his hair, and it’s soft and pink and has tears pricking the corners of Louis’ eyes.

_‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.’_

He falls asleep to Harry’s gentle lulling, and Harry holds him through it, tight, tighter.

_‘So close, that your eyes close with my dreams.’_

They’re munching on raisin cookies while piano chords hum softly from a recording when Harry says, “I thought you had work today.”

Louis nods, still a little disoriented from his nap. “Yeah. But Zayn – I told you he burned his thigh, right? – wanted to go skirt shopping.” He rolls his eyes fondly. “So we went. Niall stayed at the pub, though.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes. “Um, Zayn is an alpha, right?”

Louis nods. He’s waiting for a blow, now, braces himself.

“It’s okay that he – um. That he likes wearing skirts?” he whispers, the words coming out mumbled and clumsily stuck together in his hurry to get them out.

“He likes painting his nails,” Louis says instead of answering him. His tone is soft, and his words are carefully chosen even when he’s pretending they’re not. “And he likes drawing. He has his sketchbook on him all the time. He wears bandanas in his hair sometimes, and before he cut it he used to braid little strands of it sometimes, or tie it back with scrunchies or hair clips so it won’t get in his eyes.”

“Yeah?” Harry whispers. It’s so heavy, that one word, like if Louis was joking it would shatter him.

“Yeah,” Louis affirms, nodding. He smiles, a small, gentle pull of his lips, and catches Harry’s wide eyes. “And it’s all okay. I promise.”

* * *

It happens by accident.

They’re in Harry’s bedroom, Louis doesn’t quite know when they moved there from the living room, sat on the plush carpet splayed on the floor. Harry’s hand is on Louis’ thigh, and Louis is painting his nails a deep, wine red.

“You know,” he says, distracted as he dips the brush into the glistening bottle, “the weird crème colour you showed me earlier–”

“Royal Blush,” Harry supplies.

“Yeah, that. It kinda looks like what Zay was looking for.” He frowns, before shrugging and moving to paint Harry’s pinkie. “I think, at least. He has the weirdest descriptions for colours, I swear to god.”

“He could,” Harry starts hesitantly, switching hands when Louis asks him to, “he could come here and see if I have the shade he wants?”

It takes a minute for it to click. Louis looks up with wide eyes at him, only remembers to school his expression when he sees the timidity on Harry’s face. It’s a big deal, but he knows not to make it one even if he wants to tackle Harry to the floor and press messy kisses all over his face, tell him he’s proud of him.

Instead, he just asks, “Are you sure?” softly, the blue of his eyes gentle, reassuring. Harry only nods, cheeks bright red and eyes wide like he’s surprised by his own actions too.

“Okay, love. I’ll tell him.” Harry bites his bottom lip and nods again, and Louis doesn’t think about it when he reaches forward to tug it from between his teeth, murmurs, “No biting,” before focusing on Harry’s nails again.

Harry’s hand is trembling ever so slightly, and Louis is so proud of him he could burst.

* * *

It’s two weeks later on a Wednesday when it happens. Louis wanted them to meet properly, didn’t think his little early morning meetups with Harry would be the right time.

He got so antsy for it to happen that Niall ended up forcing him to take the day off, said he’d die if he listened to Louis lecture Zayn about being extra gentle with Harry one more time. Louis decided he was being dramatic.

So they walk the path to Harry's little cottage, Zayn pausing to comment on how well each bush and flower are taken care of. They look freshly watered, and Louis knows they are because Harry always checks up on them in the mornings.

Louis’ careful not to step on a lone flower growing in a tiny crack between the three steps to Harry’s door, pulling back when he knocks. He pushes inside when they hear a muted ‘door’s open!’, heading straight for the kitchen and leaving Zayn to gape at his surroundings in the doorway.

“Smells good,” he says in lieu of a greeting. Harry smiles, but he looks nervous.

“You’re early,” he whispers anxiously, eyes flitting from Louis to the small kitchen doorway and back to Louis again.

Louis takes the tray of cookies from him, setting it on the counter before pulling Harry to his chest.

Into his hair, braided today and smelling of cookies and strawberry, he says, “You’re gonna be okay. I promise. It’s going to be alright.”

Harry clings to him with shaking hands, digs his nose into Louis’ neck and inhales sharply. “Okay,” he says softly.

“If it gets to be too much, you tell me. Do you understand?”

Nodding as best as he can with his head still tucked against Louis’ skin, Harry says, “I understand.”

They pull apart when they hear Zayn’s uncertain call of Louis’ name. Louis kisses Harry’s forehead, a barely-there touch of his lips that seems to sedate him still.

“Come out when you’re ready, yeah? We’ll be in the lounge.”

When Harry finally comes out, he reminds Louis a lot of the royal alpha he thought him to be when they first met. His shoulders are square, expression set in something that’s not quite a smile but not a grimace either.

His image is softened by the plate of cookies held in his quivering hands. Louis shoots up from the sofa to grab it, tries to catch Harry’s eyes when he sets it on the table beside the steaming pot of tea, but Harry’s already looking at Zayn.

“Hi,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Harry Styles. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Zayn’s smile is gentle when he takes his hand and shakes it. “Zayn Malik,” he introduces. “All good things, I hope?”

Louis grins when Harry’s lips twitch, fighting down a smile. “Of course,” he says, but there’s laughter colouring his tone.

Turning to glare at Louis, Zayn scoffs. “Have you been talking shit about me?”

It makes Harry giggle, and he presses it shyly into the sleeve of his floral turtleneck sweater when Zayn and Louis turn to him.

It takes three cookies and one hot cup of tea for Harry to loosen up. Zayn is gentle with him, much more than Louis expected him to be after all the threats he threw Louis’ way whenever Louis brought up Harry and gentleness.

He’s much more hesitant about showing Zayn his room than he was Louis, but Zayn keeps his eyes set on the rows of nail polish a squirming Harry leads him to instead of letting them roam over fairy lights and princess pink bedding.

The colour he’s been looking for is tucked neatly somewhere in Harry’s collection, and it has nothing to do with Royal Blush, but, instead, a deep yellow shade that Louis doesn’t bother learning the name of. When Zayn offers to paint Harry’s nails, Harry looks a little like a deer caught in headlights. But then he nods, and in less than ten minutes his nails are a gorgeous sage green and his cherry red lips are crinkling his eyes with how hard he’s smiling.

Louis forces Zayn to try the raisin cookies despite Harry’s protests that he doesn’t have to, and it has Harry beaming when Zayn finally does. When he tells Harry that they’re good, Louis looks stupidly smug and Harry like he’s about to cry.

“Chocolate chip is still better,” he teases when he swallows the last bite of his cookie. Louis kicks him in the shin. Harry promises to bake him chocolate chip cookies next time.

They snuggle up in Harry’s bed when Zayn leaves with a hug for each of them, pull the sheets up to their chests and press as close together as they can. Harry’s head is on Louis’ shoulder, and he’s smiling.

Louis wants him to be happy always.

“Thank you,” he breathes softly.

“What for?” Louis asks, tracing blobs on Harry’s palm.

Harry blushes, his cheeks turning a soft roseate. “Um, I had fun, today. It was lovely,” he murmurs, like it’s a secret. Louis supposes it kind of is. “But you didn’t tell me you’re friends with a model. Who has a jaw that sharp?”

Louis laughs, surprised, his fingertip stuttering on Harry’s hand. His chest feels warm. “Am I not pretty enough for you?”

“You’re the prettiest,” Harry says earnestly, whispering again. “Prettiest ever.”

Instead of telling him it’s not fair when he says things like that, Louis says, “Not as pretty as you.” He only notices he’s drawing a heart on Harry’s hand again and again when Harry’s breath hitches, ever so slightly.

Harry doesn’t pull away, and Louis doesn’t stop.

“You should let him style you,” he says, giggling when Louis gasps, mock offended.

“I’ll have you know there’s nothing wrong with hoodies and sweatpants.”

“Of course not,” Harry whispers, laughing softly still. “But have you _seen_ the skirt he was wearing? You should wear skirts too.”

Louis’ pout melts into a small, content smile. “I have a couple, but I never wear them. They feel too snug around my waist. I don’t understand how you two do it.”

Harry is gaping when he leans away from him. He hits Louis’ arm repeatedly; “You have skirts and you didn’t tell me!”

Catching his hand in his own, Louis allows, “I’ll wear one next time. I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

He doesn’t look like he believes him, so Louis adds, “I promise,” and pointedly rolls his eyes, making Harry grin.

Before tucking himself back against Louis’ side, he leans forward and retrieves the book he’s currently reading from his bedside table. He presents it to Louis shyly, shuffling a little until he’s comfortable under Louis’ arm.

“Read for me?”

The book is worn out and familiar in Louis’ hands. He gave it to Harry a couple of days earlier, told him he thinks he might like it. Knowing Harry has been reading it makes his heart flutter dramatically against his ribs.

He whispers, “Of course.”

When Louis stops reading a chapter and a half later, Harry whines, kittenish and pouty. “Why’d you stop?”

“You like bedtime stories, don’t you?” Harry doesn’t even try opening his eyes, just clings closer to Louis.

“More,” he mumbles, nodding.

“More what, kitten?”

“More reading.” He pauses. “’M not a kitten.”

Louis tuts, and Harry whimpers. “Best kitty,” he says soothingly, pulling him closer and scratching at his scalp with ginger fingers. “Kitty has to sleep now. It’s late.”

“’Kay,” Harry says softly after a yawn, not awake enough to demand anything else. “Night, night, Lou.”

Smiling, Louis murmurs, “G’night, little love.” He brushes stray raisin cookie crumbs off the sheets before moving Harry so he’s snuggled comfortably, distantly thinks about how the sheets will be hung up to dry and smelling like lavender come tomorrow afternoon. The fairy lights appear brighter when he switches off the light bulb, and Louis goes back to press a soft kiss to Harry’s forehead before leaving the room and closing the door quietly behind him.

It’s only when he’s standing on the cottage’s porch that he sees the problem. It’s not like anything would happen if the door was left unlocked, the town is almost always safe, but now his alpha is growling restlessly in his chest at the thought of leaving Harry unprotected.

He wishes he had a spare key or the willpower to wake Harry up and make sure he locks the door behind him, but he has neither so silently lets himself back inside.

For a fleeting moment, he contemplates letting himself into Harry’s room and wrapping him in his arms – but then he decides that’s creepy, incredibly so, and lies on the sofa instead, hugging a throw pillow to his chest and closing his eyes. He falls asleep fairly quickly, pressing his nose into the pillow searching for any hint of Harry’s scent. He smells raisins and cookies instead, and in his drowsy mind thinks it’s enough, it should be, until Harry is comfortable enough not to drown himself in scent neutralisers each morning.

* * *

There’s a warm blanket covering him when he wakes up. Louis blinks once, twice, sitting up and rubbing the sleep dust from his eyes before he remembers where he is.

“Morning, Lou,” he hears, and turns around to find Harry walking out the kitchen with two steaming mugs of tea in his hands. “I was about to wake you.”

Louis nods. “Time’s it?” he asks, voice raspy with the remnants of sleep, and accepts the tea from Harry gratefully.

“Early still,” Harry murmurs, blowing on his own tea before taking a small sip and humming quietly. “Sleep well?”

He nods again. “Sorry for staying over without asking. You fell asleep and I realised if I left there would be no one to lock the door.”

Harry hides his smile behind the cup of tea. “I don’t mind,” he says. “Was a little surprised, but, like – the good kind of surprise.”

Louis takes him in in the silence that follows, his hair slipping over his shoulders a little and still wet from when he must’ve showered and the oversized shirt he’s wearing over tiny pyjama shorts. He looks soft, not quite as put together as he usually is but not as rumpled as Louis thinks he would be if he woke up beside him and caught the first fluttering of his eyelashes as he wakes up.

He’s gorgeous like this, and Louis finds himself wanting to press soft kisses all over his face until he’s giggling, or blow raspberries on his tummy until he’s gasping for air in between bouts of laughter.

His fingers tighten a fraction on his mug, warmth seeping through his fingertips. If Harry notices, he doesn’t say.

They eat star-shaped fairy bread for breakfast, the soft whirring of the washing machine a quiet hum in the background. Harry refuses to let him leave for his morning walk and shuts down Louis’ half-hearted protests with mirth dancing in his eyes when he says he’ll lend him some of his own clothes, and that Louis can always use his bath to shower.

Louis takes him up on it, not really wanting to leave in the first place. He soaks in the water, hot and glittering under the yellow bathroom lights and scrubs himself raw with a small, pink loofah and strawberry scented shampoo.

Harry’s singing lowly as he moves around his bedroom, and it’s soothing mixed in with the splatter of water on the back of Louis’ head as he washes the soapy suds from his hair. His fingers are pruney when he finally steps out the tub to find the warm, fluffy off-white towel Harry placed in the bathroom earlier. He doesn’t allow his eyes to linger on the row of scent neutralisers and more bottles of shampoo lining the counter under the mirror, just wraps himself in the towel and searches the small cabinet for another to dry his hair.

When he clicks the door open, the first things he notices are that the room is a lot tidier than it was last night and that Harry is standing in the middle of it gaping at him.

“Sorry!” he squeaks, turning around quickly and burying his burning face in his hands. “I’m sorry, um. I was cleaning the mess and changing the sheets. Sorry. Your clothes are on the bed. Um, I’ll go now.”

Louis only grows more amused with each word, and he wants to reassure him that it’s alright but it’s also fun seeing him incredibly flustered as he is, so he forces himself to keep quiet.

“Sorry,” Harry says again, closing the door hurriedly behind him. Louis pretends he doesn’t hear the embarrassed sigh on the other side of the door.

There are indeed clothes sitting waiting for him on the freshly changed linen of the bed. The pale brown, cable-knit sweater is soft in Louis’ hands when he holds it, its wool cool on his chest when he slips it on. There’s a floral skirt that looks like it would be a little snug around his tiny waist, because _Harry’s_ waist is so terribly small – Louis knows because Harry forced them to compare waist sizes and looked incredibly smug when they confirmed that his is smaller. Louis thought the whole thing was both ridiculous and hopelessly endearing.

The skirt is white with tiny embroidery of blooming flowers, and it makes the golden of his bare legs pop when he squeezes into it.

He can't find any underwear after he looks, and, finally, he gives in, a little embarrassed. “Harry!”

Harry’s cheeks are the colour of strawberry when he pushes the door open hesitantly, keeping his gaze locked on his feet until Louis tells him he’s fully dressed. “Yeah?” he asks shyly. Louis thinks he knows.

“You didn’t leave out any boxers,” he says, tone of voice making him appear less awkward than he feels.

If possible, Harry blushes even more. “Oh,” he breathes. “Um, I don’t – like, I don’t really, um.”

It’s just boxers, shouldn’t be a big deal, but Harry looks so incredibly flustered and like he’d rather be anywhere else. “You don’t..?” Louis coaxes gently.

“Like, I don’t have any?” The end of his sentence is high and shaped like a question, and now Louis is just confused. There’s something there, he’s sure, but he can’t quite figure it out yet.

Brows furrowed, Louis asks, “What do you mean?”

Harry hesitates. He’s playing with the rings on his fingers, and the air around them is slowly getting choked with the citrusy smell of anxiety.

“Harry, Haz, look at me.” When he does, Harry looks scared. “It’s okay, whatever it is. I promise. We’re okay, alright?”

“Okay,” Harry whispers, gulping. “I can, um. I can show you?”

He stumbles clumsily over to a draw when Louis nods his head ‘yes’, opens it with hands trembling ever so slightly. Louis leans closer when Harry stays silent, hovers over him to look into the drawer.

Neat rows of panties sit squeezed tightly together, and they look soft and delicate, tiny. It’s only when Harry starts rambling that Louis snaps himself out of thinking about how pretty they’d look pressing indecent lines onto the milky skin of Harry’s bum.

“I’m sorry,” he’s babbling, quick and hesitant like he’s worried if he doesn’t give a good enough explanation Louis will leave and never look back. “I know it’s weird. They just, kind of, um. They make me feel good? And pretty. I know, like, alphas aren’t supposed to be like this. I’m sorry, this is _so_ weird, oh, my God–”

“Can I borrow one?” Louis asks instead of commenting on Harry misgendering himself, thinks that’s too deep of a conversation to have when Harry’s hands are already shaking and there are hot, salty tears in his eyes.

“What?” he says quietly, sniffling when he catches Louis’ eyes.

Scenting the air and smiling when Harry’s shoulders droop in response to the sweet, floral notes of lavender, Louis repeats, “Can I borrow one?”

Harry's breath stutters when he inhales the calming pheromones again, but he looks calmer already. He blinks slowly, teardrops pillowing over his eyelashes like dew.

“Are you sure?” he asks shyly, wiping at his eye when Louis nods. “You wanna, um. Y’wanna pick?” There’s the lovely, lovely baby pink dusting of his cheekbones again, and the green of his eyes is a little hazy against the whites, reddened from crying. He’s beautiful, and Louis loves him.

“Pick for me?” he says, encouraging and soft like he’s talking to a child.

Harry blinks again before nodding determinedly. Louis grins.

“Pick the prettiest ones, please,” he says before pausing. “Well, the second prettiest ones. You’re already wearing the prettiest.”

Harry turns back to the drawer, biting his lip to conceal a smile. “’M just wearing plain ones,” he murmurs, shy and little and boyish, and, well – Louis did not need the visual, doesn’t think he’ll be able to get it out of his head for a while.

“The prettiest ones have strawberry prints on them,” Harry continues, almost mindless now as he ruffles through the draw. Louis gulps. “But they’re in the wash.”

The pair he bashfully presents to Louis a minute later is just a small, plain off-white thing with prints of pink filled unicorns on them. Louis thanks him with a chaste kiss to the forehead before ducking into the bathroom again, trying not to feel like a teenager in love as he slips them on and failing. He washes his face with cold water and takes a moment to breathe before exiting.

He finds Harry in the kitchen. He’s changed into a blue wool knit top and simple black leggings that make his legs look thinner than they already are. Two bees hovering over a flower are embroidered right under the crew neckline, spanning over his hidden collarbones.

“You’re leaving now?” Harry asks, words muffled around the big, blue bow hair tie stuck in his mouth.

Louis rolls his eyes and leans forward to take the hairbrush from Harry’s hand. “Yeah,” he murmurs, brushing the knots out of his curls carefully. “If I’m late again Niall will have my head.”

“Ow,” Harry whines when Louis brushes a little harder at an insistent knot. “Be gentle.”

“Sorry, baby,” Louis says, only half teasing. “You want it all up?”

Harry nods, the tiniest movement of his head. “Yes, please.”

Quietly, Louis threads his fingers through Harry’s hair and ties it up in a ponytail, brushing the baby hairs to the side when Harry turns to him, grinning.

“Thank you,” he says sweetly.

“Of course,” Louis replies, walking over to the main door to retrieve his Vans. Harry stays in the kitchen doing god knows what as Louis slides his feet into them and unlocks the door. “Harry?”

“Just a second,” Harry yells, and then he’s rushing to Louis with a small bag of raisin cookies in his hands. “Take these with you,” he says shyly. He leans closer and presses a kiss to Louis’ cheek, “Have a good day at work.”

And then he’s gone, hidden in the kitchen, and Louis stands stunned in the doorway with a bag of cookies clutched tightly in his hand and the subtle sweet smell of honey tickling his nose.

* * *

It’s three days later and the rare occasion that the pub closed early for no reason other than that Niall wanted to go out and there were no customers. Louis isn’t sure how, or why, he actually agreed to let him go.

He managed to talk Niall out of dragging him to the bar, though, and now he’s knocking gently on Harry’s door, sticking his hands in the pockets of his hoodie as he waits.

There’s no answer, no cheerful Harry or the smell of fresh raisin cookies greeting him. Frowning, Louis retrieves his copy of the key – because Harry decided he should absolutely have one, and Louis wasn’t going to say no to that – from the back pocket of his skin-tight black jeans and pushes it into the lock slowly.

“Haz?” Both the kitchen and living room lights are switched off, and it makes anxiety bubble up in Louis’ chest, his inner wolf restless in his chest. “Harry?”

He could just be out, Louis knows, but he doubts that is it because his wolf has been on edge all day.

When he finds him, Harry’s curled up into a tiny ball in the middle of his queen-sized bed, and it’s obvious he hasn’t left his position for quite some time. Louis approaches carefully, and he’s a little scared, now.

“Baby?” Harry doesn’t move, doesn’t make a noise, but when Louis gets closer he sees the tears forming rapidly in the corners of his eyes. His phone’s pink case blends in with the sheets beside his head, and Louis sets it on the bedside table before getting closer again. “What’s wrong, sunshine?” he whispers, achingly gentle even though his heart is trying to break out of his ribcage.

Harry whimpers, tired and miserable and so, so sad, so small. He shakes his head, keeps shaking it when Louis climbs up on the bed and hauls Harry into his lap, shakes it when he tucks it into Louis’ neck and clings to his hoodie like he’ll drown if he lets go, like Louis is the only thing anchoring him, like he’s lost.

“It’s okay,” Louis whispers into his hair, because Harry’s trembling all over and the neckline of his hoodie is sticking to his skin with how drenched it’s getting. It’s not really okay, and Louis doesn’t know what’s wrong but he can’t help but whisper gentle reassurances into Harry’s uncombed curls and hope that’ll make it even the tiniest bit better. “I’m here.”

“Please,” Harry whines nonsensically, desperately. Louis tucks him closer against his chest, because that’s all he can do, and kisses the top of his head over and over again. “Lou.”

“I’m right here, angel. Not going anywhere.” He thinks they’re both scared, really. Harry doesn’t say another word, just sobs into Louis’ skin until his eyes are droopy and his body is aching all over, his hands giving up their death-grip on Louis’ clothes but still shaking, ever so slightly.

His lips, too, quiver softly from where they’re mouthing at the golden skin of Louis’ neck. Louis kisses his temple.

“C’n we have cookies,” Harry asks, voice small and words muffled with the thumb he’s stuck in his mouth.

It should be weird, Louis thinks, asking for cookies at a time like this, but somehow it isn’t, just an innocent attempt at making himself feel better.

“Shower first, yeah?” Louis says, shushing Harry’s tiny whimper gently and carrying him to the bathroom.

“’M tired,” Harry says when Louis deposits him carefully into the tub, and Louis _knows_ , and it’s killing him, seeing Harry, _his_ Harry, like this, but he also knows a shower will help, even if only slightly.

Louis fills the tub with Harry in it, and Harry doesn’t protest that he’s still fully clothed, just stares at the water getting higher and higher until it’s tickling his chin. He turns to Louis with pleading eyes like he doesn’t know what to do now, like he’d rather just go back to bed and cry himself to sleep before pretending none of this happened tomorrow.

Grabbing the pink shampoo bottle, Louis tells him, “I’m gonna wash your hair now, okay, love?”

Harry nods. He looks grateful for the tiny bit of guidance, for that he doesn’t have to hold the weight of one more decision on top of his shoulders. Louis wants to hide him under his hoodie and keep him safe forever.

Instead, he lathers the bubbly pink soap in his hands and works it into Harry’s hair after wetting it. He’s running his soaped fingers through the tips of Harry’s curls when Harry says,

“My dad used to lock me in my room with no dinner when I would sneak into mum’s room and steal her makeup.”

Louis’ fingers immediately stop, and he feels like crying.

“I think,” Harry continues, “everyone kinda knew I would present as an omega. So Dad,” he pauses, and then he laughs. It’s sad more than it is bitter. “I guess he thought if he toughened me up a bit – you know, no makeup, no dresses, no flowers, no fairy tales, no music, no friends, no smiling unless people expected it – I would present as an alpha?” He shrugs like his words aren’t weighing Louis’ heart down until it’s sinking, like Louis doesn’t feel like throwing up.

“I remember the time I told Mummy I want to be Cinderella for Halloween – I was seven, I think? – and he came to my room and beat the shit out of me.” It feels like he’s placing into Louis’ hands someone else’s story with how detached from it he sounds, but then he sniffles, and somehow that’s even worse, like he’s realising that no matter how much he runs from it it will still be his past, his story.

“I like music,” Harry whispers, closing his eyes. His lips pull up in a small smile, but Louis can see his hands shaking. “And I like pink, and fairy lights, and bedtime stories. Dark clothes make me upset. Bright skirts are more fun.”

Hot tears drip and collect on the sharp line of Louis’ jaw, and he forces himself to listen.

He sounds a little bashful when he says, “’Nd I like nail polish and flowers, ‘nd _you_ , ‘cause you make me feel _safe_ ‘nd happy.” He giggles then, high and sweet. “Raisin cookies make me happy!”

When he turns to Louis, Harry’s eyes widen, the smile slipping off his face. The water sloshes when he moves, spilling over the edge of the tub and puddling at Louis’ feet, and there’s still soap suds in his hair and coating Louis’ hands, but Harry looks worried now.

“Why are you crying, Louis? Don’t cry,” he whispers, wiping at the drying tear tracks carefully, and he’s so achingly gentle Louis feels like he’s going to burst.

“’M fine, Hazza,” he promises, taking his hands in his, but Harry either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t believe it.

He asks, “Do you not like the cookies? We can make choco-chip ones if you want! ‘Nd I’ll even put milk in your tea! Please don’t be sad, Lou, shh.”

With the same aching gentleness, he leans closer and licks at Louis’ pulse point, right over his heart, in an attempt to soothe. Louis leans into it, silently crying now. They’re a mess, and there’s pink, strawberry-scented shampoo all over their clothes, but Louis only clings to Harry tighter, doesn’t know if he’s holding Harry or himself or them both, and Harry kitten licks over his neck and shoulder, pressing a lone kiss to Louis’ bobbing Adam’s apple.

When Louis presses his nose to Harry’s neck, there’s the smell of strawberries and the smokiness of exhaustion, but there’s rich honey, too, instead of the nothingness scent neutralisers always left. Harry smells like _honey_ , and it’s comforting, and like home; Louis wants to drown in it.

He dresses Harry in an oversized blush pink hoodie that slips just past his bum and plain panties with a tiny pink bow sewed to the front. After kissing his cold feet to make him giggle, Louis helps him into freshly washed socks, too, before pecking his cheek and excusing himself for a minute, leaving Harry heavy-lidded and yawning on the bed as he changes into borrowed sweatpants and a white shirt.

The sun has already set, so Louis carries him over to the living room instead of taking him outside and sits him in between his legs to brush his hair, Harry purring when Louis starts pulling it into a braid slowly.

Louis feeds him raisin cookies and helps him drink his milk-free tea until his movements are less sluggish and he doesn’t feel floaty, can hold his cup of tea on his own.

“Hi,” Harry whispers, dust dancing in front of his eyes when he blinks.

Louis smiles. “Hi, love,” he says. “Feel better?”

Harry nods, looking embarrassed. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Louis says seriously. “I’ll always take care of you.”

Shuffling a little so he’s lying on the sofa with his head on Louis’ thighs, Harry demands, “Tell me a story.”

Louis supposes their talk could wait until the morning, so he says, “What about?”

“Dunno,” Harry murmurs, closing his eyes and leaning into Louis’ hands when they tug at a loose curl, “whatever you want.”

So Louis tells him a story he told his younger sisters time and time again, and before it’s finished Harry is already snoring soundly in his lap. He plays with his hair slowly and watches the rise and fall of his chest and the dusty pink of his cheeks, and he thinks if this boy asked something of him he’d say yes in a heartbeat, always.

Harry startles awake when Louis is laying him down on his bed, blinks half-opened eyes and whines quietly in the back of his throat. “Alpha?”

“It’s okay, baby,” Louis soothes, “I’m right here. Go back to sleep.”

“Stay,” Harry says, latching onto Louis again when Louis climbs in next to him and cuddles him to his chest, pulling the princess pink sheets on top of them.

He kisses the top of his head, feeling Harry relax against him. “Not going anywhere,” he promises, and the nod he receives is only a tiny shake of Harry’s head, too sleepy for anything else. “Sweet dreams, little darling.”

* * *

“Stop starin’ at me,” Harry mumbles against Louis’ chest without opening his eyes, and Louis laughs.

“G’morning, love,” he says softly. “You slept okay?”

Harry hums, cuddling closer. “Like a baby.”

“You _are_ a baby,” Louis says, unable to keep the fondness from his voice.

Harry smiles. “’M a baby,” he repeats, slowly blinking his eyes open. He sits up and wipes at his eyes before looking at Louis, “What’s the time?”

Shrugging as best as he can under the blankets, Louis says, “Was a couple of minutes past six, last I checked. Now come back and cuddle me.”

Harry only laughs, slipping off the bed and tiptoeing to the bathroom. “Get up,” he says. “You have work.”

“Don’t. Niall said he’s too hungover to work and I’m not going alone.”

Poking his head out the bathroom, Harry deadpans, “That’s a shitty way to run a business,” before closing the door and leaving Louis to pout on his own.

Louis does get up, in the end. He’s already used the bathroom and washed his face when Harry was still asleep, so now he tucks himself in the kitchen and starts on two cups of tea, plating raisin cookies to keep himself busy.

It’s only when Harry comes up behind him that he relaxes. “You okay?”

Louis nods, smiling because he can’t help it. “You smell like honey,” he murmurs, dunking the tea bags into the mugs so Harry wouldn’t see how happy he is.

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry says, but there’s a smile in his voice. “I, um. I threw them out, the scent neutralisers.”

Louis’ so proud he could kiss him. Instead, he turns around and wraps Harry in a hug. “I think you smell lovely,” he whispers against Harry’s neck, the hot air making Harry shiver.

“Thank you,” Harry breathes, and Louis only shushes him before pulling back.

“Tea time!” he declares, too loudly for seven in the morning. Harry rolls his eyes, but grabs his mug and follows Louis to the lounge, tucking his feet beneath himself when he sits on the couch.

He’s dipping his cookie in his cup of tea when Harry says, “I talked to Mum yesterday.” Louis sits back and nods for him to continue. “That’s why I was kind of,” he flails his hand in front of him a bit, and then he laughs, self-deprecatingly. “I’m not usually that bad; I don’t really know why that happened.”

Louis shakes his head. “You don’t have to apologise to me,” he says, “I told you. I’ll take care of you anytime.”

“But it’s weird,” Harry insists, “how, how spacy I get when I’m sad. And like, a little like I’m drunk.”

“Hey,” Louis says, putting a hand over Harry’s to still them, “don’t do that. We all deal with sadness the best way we can. It’s not weird.”

Whatever it is he looks for in Louis’ eyes must be there, because he deflates a little. “You promise?”

“I promise.” He takes a small sip of his tea. “Harry, do you – like, do you want to be an alpha?”

Harry shakes his head. “I just don’t know anything about omegas, you know? So it scares me, a little. I’ve been – acted like – an alpha for as long as I can remember, so it’s not something I overthink. I don’t want it, but I don’t know anything about what I am either.”

“You _don’t_ have to be a certain way, you know that, right?”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“There’s _no right way_ to be anything. You can do whatever you want, dress however you want, _be_ whoever you want. Heats and ruts don’t define who you are. You can just be you, darling,” he says, gentler now that Harry’s looking at him with eyes wide, scared, like Louis’ holding his little world in his hands and flipping it upside down. “Just let yourself be. I _know_ there are still people who look down on omegas, and people who think alphas can't wear pink – but these people are _stupid_ , Harry. You _don’t_ have to be an alpha to be worth something. You’re already so, so lovely just the way you are.”

When Harry blinks, two tears slip over his right cheek. Louis leans forward and licks them off without thinking before kissing the damp corner of Harry’s eye.

“I’m here,” he whispers, bumping their noses together. “You’re okay.”

* * *

It’s three weeks since Louis discovered that Harry and Zayn have secretly become best friends behind his back – Zayn went to his house twice, whatever. Louis is _not_ jealous – and Niall laughed at him for the near ten minutes that Louis pouted.

Niall decides that Louis should just bring Harry to the pub so they would meet, because going to his house to meet him would mean the both of them taking the day off, and they can't exactly afford to do that more than they already do.

So it’s six pm on a Thursday and they’re waiting for Zayn to bring Harry to the pub, because Louis insisted he does even after Harry reassured him that he knows the way.

“They’re not going to magically appear at the door if you keep glancing at it,” Louis hears, and he would turn to glare at Niall, but then he wouldn’t be able to watch the door.

It’s a half an hour later that they arrive, much to Louis’ dismay, and when he sees them he’s immediately sprinting towards the door and wrapping Harry in his arms. Harry giggles into his neck, pressing his nose to his skin and inhaling deeply.

“Missed you,” he whispers.

“Missed _you_ ,” Louis says back, nuzzling into Harry’s neck. “You had a good day?” he asks when he pulls back.

Harry nods. “Zayn knows how to make a girl feel loved,” he teases, and Louis rolls his eyes.

“Go sit your pretty little bum on a table and I’ll get you something to eat.”

It seems to remind Harry that they’re not alone and he freezes, his eyes suddenly blown with panic as they stare into Louis’.

Subtly intensifying his scent, Louis leads him to a small, secluded table for two that’s far enough from people’s eyes but where he’ll still be able to watch Louis at the counter. Zayn is already sitting in one of the seats, his phone pressed to his ear.

He shares a look with Louis and then nods. “Li, talk to Hazza,” he says into the phone before handing it to Harry.

Louis leaves them to it after a chaste kiss to the crown of Harry’s head.

“You two are disgusting,” Niall says when he slides back behind the counter, but he sounds fond.

“Thanks, mate. Really appreciate the support there.”

It takes him about fifteen minutes to prepare their food – burgers and fries, because Harry might like eating healthy but Louis made him promise to try the pub’s burgers – and when he takes it to the table Harry’s grinning at whatever Liam is saying on the other side of the line. Louis doesn’t have it in him to be jealous.

He serves them fresh juice with it because he knows of Harry’s dislike for alcohol, and Zayn doesn’t even protest when Louis places a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in front of him.

“Thank you,” Harry mouths silently, and Louis grins.

“’Course, love. Come find me if you need anything.”

* * *

It’s easier to focus with Harry there than Louis expected it to be, and in no time all orders are served and Louis’ back against the counter, emptying his bottle of water.

A customer is coming in when Louis looks back, and he smiles at him when he approaches.

“Hey, mate,” Louis says. “The usual?”

Jude nods, “Yes, please.” After he pays, he stays leaning against the counter and eyes Louis curiously. “Any particular reason you look so happy you’re about to fly?”

“Fuck off,” Louis laughs, dunking the fries in hot oil. “Can’t a man just be happy?”

“His boyfriend is here,” Niall supplies.

Louis flips him off. “Not my boyfriend,” he says, but Jude is already scoping the place for an unfamiliar face, and he lights up when his eyes land in Harry’s direction.

“Oh,” Jude says, delighted, “he’s hot. Good on you, man.”

“He’s not my–” Louis starts again, but Jude cuts him off.

“He’s coming over.”

He _is_ , is the thing, and he looks something between a pouting toddler and an angry kitten. Louis really wants to kiss him.

“You okay, darling?” he asks instead, not even pretending that his voice isn’t suddenly low and caring, the way it gets when he talks to Harry.

Harry huffs. He puts his empty glass on the counter and, pausing to glare at Jude, asks, “Will you refill it, please.”

Confused, Louis only says, “Sure,” and does as he’s been asked, presenting the newly-filled glass to Harry with the tiniest frown on his face.

“Is everything ok–”

Harry kisses him. Just gets up on his tiptoes and leans over the counter to press their lips together, only a barely-there touch and then it's gone.

He holds his glass carefully so it won’t spill, says, “Thank you,” and walks back to his table like nothing happened, like he didn’t just _kiss_ him, like Louis isn’t left standing with his mouth gaping open and eyes wide.

Niall is in absolute hysterics beside him, bent over and laughing, and Jude’s eyes are a little wide but his lips are pulled up in an amused grin. He takes his food silently when Louis finally remembers how to move his limbs and prepares it for him, glancing once at Harry’s table before sitting in his usual spot at the other side of the pub.

It doesn’t take Louis long to snap out of it, because he can _feel_ Harry’s distress with the way his own wolf is raging, restless in his chest.

“Come with me,” he orders when he reaches the corner where Zayn is trying to calm a frantic Harry down and takes Harry’s hand in his, his touch gentle as he guides him through the backdoor of the pub.

(He doesn’t think he knows how to be anything but gentle with this boy, his boy, and doesn’t think he wants to be, anyway.)

Harry shivers the moment the cool air hits his skin, the thin white shirt he’s wearing over skin-tight black jeans not enough to warm up his naturally cold body.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Louis whispers under his breath, belatedly realising it’s not the right thing to say when Harry’s eyes flicker up from where they were digging holes into his white Converse shoes and meet Louis’, damp with tears.

“I’m sorry,” he rushes out, “Lou, I–”

Louis touches a finger to his parted lips, and Harry’s eyes widen the tiniest bit, the green shrinking behind dilating black, but he quiets down.

“I’m not mad at you,” he promises. Harry still looks a little uneasy, but he nods. “Let me grab you a jacket and then we’ll have a little walk, calm you down. Okay?”

He waits for an affirmation, and when it comes he ducks back into the pub and grabs the jacket he keeps there just in case the nights got too chilly. Niall shoots him a knowing look and, after giving him the finger and reassuring Zayn that Harry is okay, Louis lets himself out through the backdoor again.

Harry’s clutching his elbows, his fingers visibly shaking against his soft skin, and he’s still rooted in the spot where Louis left him.

Rushing to Harry’s side, Louis tuts, “Love, you could’ve waited inside,” and tenderly helps Harry into the jean jacket. “There,” he murmurs, buttoning every button except the one on the collar, “much better.”

“I probably look ridiculous,” Harry argues, Louis rolling his eyes fondly when a smile takes over Harry’s face not a second later. “Thank you.”

Louis reaches a hand out for him, and Harry takes it and threads their fingers together. “Of course.”

They walk hand in hand in silence, their legs following the path to Harry’s house without them noticing.

“I’m sorry,” Harry starts quietly when they’re closer to his house than they are to the pub. “That, um, back in the pub– I shouldn’t have done that.”

Louis’ heart throbs against his ribcage, his wolf whining, but he smiles, small and sad but a smile nonetheless. “Why did you?”

A dark blush makes its way down Harry’s cheeks and disappears under the collar of Louis’ jacket. He shrugs, a tiny motion of his shoulders, and the tips of his fingers tug gently at the sleeves swallowing his hands.

“I guess, um. I didn’t really, like,” he pauses, harshly swallowing, before rushing out, “I didn’t like how close he was to you.”

Louis shakes his head, looking up at the sky. It’s a gorgeous mix of orange and pink shades with white puffs of clouds reaching out to touch the setting sun.

“Lou?” Harry asks hesitantly.

Louis squeezes his hand. “You have no idea, do you?” he hums, breathing out a laugh. He shakes his head again like he’s berating himself over something, and Harry’s eyes are uncertain as they watch him, but he doesn’t say anything. “Let’s go home, yeah?”

It’s not long before Harry’s jamming the key into the lock and letting himself inside, switching on the lights and kneeling to untie his shoelaces. Louis stands on the steps just outside, poking at a tiny crack with the tip of his shoe.

“Louis?” Harry asks, bending his neck at an awkward angle to try and catch Louis’ eyes before managing to push his shoes off and standing up, his face creased with a confused frown.

Refusing to meet his eyes, Louis points a thumb behind himself and says, “I should probably go back to mine.”

“Oh,” he breathes.

“Yeah,” Louis says, finally looking up. Almost mindlessly, he tucks a stray curl behind Harry’s ear, like it’s second nature, like he has any right to do so when he and Harry are nothing more than friends. There is a spark in Harry’s eyes that makes Louis’ deep inhales shaky, and he’s too scared to try and figure out what it means. His voice is nothing more than a whisper when he adds, his thumb pressing softly under Harry’s right eye, “I just don’t wanna do anything stupid,” and it wavers, faint like how flames flicker before they die out. He feels pathetic.

“Like what?” Harry challenges after a pause that’s probably not as long as Louis feels it was, stepping backwards so Louis is forced to follow or let go of his hold on Harry’s face. Harry only pulls him fully into the warmth of his house when Louis whines his name, high-pitched and pitiful, the door shutting behind them with a slam.

He sneaks a hand up and tangles it in the soft chestnut hairs at the base of Louis’ neck. His eyes are a foamy green dotted with sparkling speckles of gold, and they’re filled with something that Louis _knows_ twinkles in the cerulean blue of his eyes too, reflecting right back at Harry.

“Kiss me,” Harry murmurs, his eyes sure despite his fingers trembling against Louis’ skin. “Kiss me, please.”

Louis wants to. God, Louis wants to so, _so_ badly.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, bringing his other hand up to cradle Harry’s face too. His nose bumps Harry’s gently, clumsily, and he can feel Harry’s warm, shaky exhales against his lips.

Harry nods, knocking their foreheads together. His grip on Louis’ hair tightens, his other hand fisting the base of Louis’ shirt. “I’m yours.”

Louis’ nose nudges his flushed cheek before he presses their lips together. His eyes stay half-lidded to watch the way Harry’s own flutter, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightens further, the honey of his scent gets richer.

“Baby,” Louis breathes against his mouth when Harry whimpers, guiding him slowly until his back is pressed against the door so Louis can tilt his head just ever so slightly. He doesn’t quite remember how to get air into his lungs, and his heart is beating so quickly he thinks Harry can feel it.

It’s gentle, even when Harry’s tongue pushes Louis’ lips apart and shyly licks into his mouth. Louis lets him, kisses back just as softly but lets Harry lead, his black painted fingernails scratching soothingly at Harry’s scalp.

When he pulls back for air Harry whines, high and sweet, and leans forward on wobbling knees, clumsily chasing the dizzying taste of Louis’ thin, spit-slick lips.

Louis laughs, fond and breathy against Harry’s warm skin. He kisses Harry’s pout with smiling lips before pecking the corner of his mouth.

“Okay?” he murmurs.

Harry pushes his head into Louis’ neck, breathing in the concentrated vanilla of his scent. “More than,” he sighs, nodding against golden skin.

* * *

“We’re running out of cookies,” Louis says when he swallows, brushing raisin cookie crumbs off his lap.

Harry hums distractedly, his tongue sticking out and brows furrowed in concentration as he paints Louis’ pinkie a cherry red that matches his own. He looks up smiling when he’s satisfied, and his strawberry red lips break into a shy grin when he catches Louis’ eyes.

“I’ll bake some in the morning,” he says quietly, reaching out for Louis’ other hand. “And there’s something on your face.”

His fingertips twitch against Louis’ thumb when Louis wipes at the corners of his mouth, licking the tiny cookie crumbs from his fingers.

“Now?” he asks.

Harry doesn’t look up. His face is still strawberry coloured, the flush high on his cheeks refusing to calm down since they kissed.

They _kissed_. Louis thinks his wolf has died and gone to heaven.

He says, “You’re good,” anyway, moving to paint Louis’ pointer finger. It’s endearing and ridiculously lovely, and Louis really wants to kiss him again, if only to feel Harry’s fingers tugging at his hair when he gets too overwhelmed, or the tingling in his lips when they pull apart for air.

(He thinks this is love.)

* * *

Louis startles when Niall whistles loudly, spilling water on the counter, and he’s just about to yell because _what the fuck, Niall_ , when he looks up to see Harry standing hesitantly at the pub’s door, a small bag in his hands. He’s in a tiny puffy dress that reaches mid-thigh, his long, milky white legs on display, and there’s a crown of lilac flowers on his head to match.

He smiles when he catches Louis’ eyes, waving shyly, and Louis leaves the water now dripping on the tiled floor to walk up to him.

“Hi, Hazza,” he says quietly, taking Harry’s hand and pulling him inside, “fancy seeing you here.”

Harry rolls his eyes, tangling his fingers with Louis’. “Why’d you let me sleep in?” he asks, actually sounding put out about it.

Louis didn’t wake him up before leaving for work, just tucked the pink sheets tightly under his chin and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead after brushing the dark curls falling over his eyes back behind his ear. He looks away from Harry’s pout before he can let himself lean in and kiss it off. “You’re cute when you’re sleeping.”

“I’m cute all the time,” Harry huffs, “thank you very much.”

His glossy lips fall from their pout when he hears Niall’s laughter, and he spins around, his cheeks already heating up. Louis squeezes his hand, rubs his thumb in soothing circles over the soft skin. “Hi,” he says softly, sweetly, suddenly bashful, “you must be Niall. I’m Harry.”

“Nice to officially meet you,” Niall says. His grin is almost splitting his face, but his voice is gentle. Louis appreciates him for all of five seconds before Niall ruins it with, “You made quite the entrance last time, mate.”

Harry groans, his hand letting go of Louis’ to cover his eyes. “I’m sorry about that,” he whispers, mortified. “I made cookies to apologise,” he adds, almost questioningly.

Louis starts to say that he’s got nothing to apologise for, but Niall cuts him off. “I’m not the biggest fan of raisin,” he says, sounding apologetic, but there’s a spark of genuine horror in his eyes like he knows Louis will force him to try the cookies anyway.

But of course, Harry, lovely, lovely Harry, remembered all of Louis’ stories about Niall’s love for chocolate, because he breathes, “Oh! Um, these are chocolate chip.”

Niall’s expression brightens immediately, and Louis would laugh if he didn’t want to smack him.

There are only two cookies in the bag ten minutes later, and Harry’s sitting on the counter with the bag clutched to his chest, guarding it with his life, and a scowl on his face.

“I didn’t say you could eat _all_ the cookies,” he says, venomous. “Now there’s only two left for Zee!”

“Zee, huh?” Louis asks, amused. Harry’s face turns beet red immediately, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Well, _Zee_ should be here in a bit. Think you can manage to keep the cookies away from Niall until then?”

“ _You_ ate just as many as he did!”

Louis wraps one of Harry’s loose curls around his pointer finger and tugs. “Are you mad?” he says, raising his eyebrows, even though he knows Harry isn’t.

Harry nods anyway. “Yes.”

Humming, Louis whispers, “What should I do so you’ll forgive me?” He’s standing in between Harry’s legs that are dangling from the counter, and his nose would bump against Harry’s if he leaned in the tiniest bit.

The pub is almost empty, but even if it was full Louis doesn’t think it would matter. Harry’s eyes are blown and his cheeks are strawberry coloured, his glossy lips pretty and so incredibly tempting. Louis can only faintly feel Harry’s painted nails digging into his shoulders, too focused on the way his eyes fall downwards to stare at Louis’ mouth.

“When we get home,” he murmurs into the air between them, like a promise, and kisses Harry’s cheek before pulling back.

Harry insists on staying in the pub until Louis closes for the day instead of going home early, and by the time Louis’ switching the lights off he is almost asleep. He whines when Louis coaxes him into a standing position and rubs tiredly at his drooping eyes, stretching his arms out in what Louis thinks means he’s asking to be carried.

So Louis carries him carefully all the way to his house, and when he puts him to bed Harry doesn’t let go of his hold on Louis’ shirt until Louis gets in next to him and tugs him closer to his chest. A sound that’s too close to a purr escapes him when Louis scratches at his scalp, looping his curls around his fingers, and it makes Louis’ wolf purr back in contentment.

They fall asleep wrapped up in each other.

* * *

“Tell me about the good things,” Louis begs desperately, pushing his face harder into Harry’s neck. “Please, Harr.”

Harry shuffles on his lap and nods into Louis’ hair. “He would travel for work sometimes,” he whispers, and Louis knows _he_ means Harry’s dad. Harry never says his name, not ever. “And Mummy – um, she would let me do what I want, dress however I want. She used to help me paint my nails because I never could get it on proper. Gems would lend me her dresses, and we would bake cookies dressed up as princesses.

“s, like, everything was so calm when he was gone.” He pauses, kissing Louis’ head before going back to petting his hair softly. “It’s okay, honey,” he says. Louis nods against his neck, exhaling shakily, like Harry didn’t tell him mere minutes ago that his dad would get blind drunk and beat him until one of them passed out.

Gently, he raises Louis’ head so his eyes are staring right into Louis’ damp ones and leans in to kiss him, soft and reassuring. “I’m okay,” he breathes against his mouth before kissing him again. Louis lets himself melt into it, because if he focuses on the anger licking up like fire in his chest he thinks he might break something.

* * *

“Get in,” Louis says again, grinning at Harry who’s still standing gaping in the doorway. “What, Hazza, you’ve never seen a car?”

“You never told me you have a car,” he says, breathless, but he doesn’t even spare it a glance.

Louis makes a show of fixing the skirt snug around his waist, delightedly watching Harry’s eyes follow the motion of his hands. “It’s Liam’s,” he explains like that’s relevant at all. “Well, Zayn uses it most of the time when Liam is away. I just asked to borrow it. Now, are you going to keep eye-fucking me or will you get in?”

Harry’s whole face blossoms a bright, rosy red, his bottom lip falling from between his teeth, and it’s truly fascinating to see, Louis’ wolf howls happily.

“I was not – um, doing that. I wasn’t.”

“Eye-fucking me?” Louis asks, more than a little amused.

Harry huffs. “I wasn’t,” he insists. “You’re pretty. I was appreciating your prettiness. Don’t make it sound so crude. What?” he adds when Louis only grins at him.

“Nothing,” Louis says, shaking his head and willing his own blush to go down, “go change into something comfortable and come on. I’ll wait in the car.”

Harry doesn’t object, disappearing into the cottage and coming out minutes later changed into a soft-looking dress that cuts just over his ankles, its straps tied in small bows over Harry’s shoulders. He thanks Louis quietly when Louis opens the door to the passenger seat for him, and Louis focuses on driving so he wouldn’t kiss him.

“Where’re we going?” Harry asks softly a while later, turning from where he was staring out the open window to look at Louis. His face has a healthy blush to it, his curls tousled by the wind, but his hands are shaky in his lap, fingers fidgeting with his rings.

Louis takes his hand in his, tangling their fingers together. “There’s a flower field a little farther from here,” he says because he knows Harry’s limits by now. He catches Harry’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “You like flowers, don’t you?”

Harry squeezes his hand in thanks but doesn’t say anything, grinning as he turns back to the open window and pressing his eyes shut when the strong wind hits his face again.

It’s less than fifteen minutes later that Harry’s swinging the door open and hopping out excitedly, making Louis roll his eyes fondly. He retrieves the basket from the back of the car after shutting the engine off, and when he looks back Harry’s already running between long blades of grass, his hair and dress flowing in the wind behind him.

Warmth fills Louis’ chest, and he doesn’t even try to pretend he’s not stupidly in love with the boy now chasing a butterfly in a flower field in front of him. He walks after him, grabbing Harry’s discarded Converse shoes off the ground after he almost trips on them.

Louis walks farther into the field before setting the checkered blanket he brought with him onto the ground and plopping on it, the picnic basket sitting beside him. He busies himself with watching Harry, and he thinks he looks smitten but he just lets himself be, not trying to school his expression into something less lovesick when Harry finally spots him and runs over, panting.

His cheeks are strawberry red, eyes a bright, glimmering green, rivalling the green of the grass blades around them and squished under his naked feet. He’s absolutely _glowing_.

“Come,” he says, giddy, smile wide and poking dimples in his cheeks, “come on!”

He reaches out and takes Louis’ hands in his, pulling him off the ground and then running before Louis can compose himself, and he almost trips again if it weren’t for Harry’s hand still clutching his tightly.

They do end up falling, tumbling over each other and laughing, because Harry’s clumsy like a baby giraffe when he’s not calculating his every move. So he topples over Louis, and he’s giggling, eyes crinkled like twinkling half-moons.

“Sorry,” he breathes in between bouts of laughter, looking down at Louis. He seems to realise the position they’re in when Louis’ hands snake up to rest on his waist, but he doesn’t pull away, and his eyes aren’t scared.

Louis loves him.

“’M gonna kiss you now,” Harry murmurs, suddenly shy, as a gust of wind blows, ruffling their hair and the grass around them, drowning his voice, but Louis hears him.

“Yeah?” he says back, like Harry’s eyes don’t keep falling to his lips before catching his eyes again.

“Please?”

Louis leans up and kisses him, swallowing Harry’s gasp. Harry’s hands are wet from the dewy grass when he moves so he’s holding Louis’ face, and he’s probably getting dirt on his face too, but Louis only kisses him deeper, wetter, until Harry’s whimpering against his mouth and then more, more, _more_.

He nibbles gently on Harry’s lower lip before letting go and licking his nose, laughing when Harry shrieks and pulls away.

“You’re gross,” he says, but he’s laughing too. His lips are puffy, eyes hazy, and Louis’ wolf preens in his chest.

Louis raises his eyebrows, and Harry rolls his eyes. “Up,” he demands, standing on wobbly legs. “C’mon, I wanna make a flower crown.”

They end up making two sloppy crowns, one for each of them, and then Louis’ dragging Harry back to the discarded picnic basket and sitting him down.

Harry looks a little surprised, like he didn’t notice the basket earlier, and his eyes keep widening more with each item Louis pulls out. “You made all this – for us?” he asks, blinking up at Louis.

Unwrapping a plate of heart-shaped sandwiches, Louis nods. “It’s not much,” he says, because it really isn’t, “just this, tea and fruit – and I may have stolen some of your cookies, so.”

Harry looks down at the container of raisin cookies before looking at Louis again. “Thank you,” he says sweetly. The blush high on his cheeks matches the one on Louis’ face.

* * *

Louis awakens because the space next to him is empty. He reaches a hand forward without opening his eyes, trying to find Harry to tug him closer, and frowns when his fingers only graze the cool sheets of the bed. Confused, Louis sits up and rubs tiredly at his eyes.

It’s three in the morning, and Harry isn’t in bed.

He follows the sound of hushed sniffling to the kitchen, and Harry’s there, curled up on himself on the floor. There’s a raisin cookie between his trembling fingers, and it looks like he’s only holding onto it like if he holds long enough it’ll bring him any resemblance of comfort. Louis suddenly doesn’t like raisin cookies all that much anymore.

“Baby?” he says quietly, trying not to startle him when he looks this scared, but Harry jumps at the sound anyway, flinching, almost, and Louis feels sick, bile rising in his stomach. “Darling,” he breathes, gentler. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch, so he doesn’t, just stands hesitantly by the kitchen doorway and waits, because there’s nothing else he can do.

Harry’s eyes are wide and hazy, spilling fresh tears over his flushed cheeks when he blinks. The cookie in his hand crumbles a little when he tightens his hold on it, and there’s hesitancy all over his face that has Louis swallowing harshly so he wouldn’t throw up. This isn’t about him.

“Can I come closer,” he says, not quite a question but something like an offer, so Harry would know it’s an option. Harry blinks again; his eyes are scared when he shakes his head hesitantly.

Louis nods, trying for a reassuring smile when his wolf is frantic in his chest. He plops down right there in the doorway, and Harry looks a little surprised before his tense shoulders droop the tiniest bit.

He still looks pretty, even when his face is a confused mess of colours, a terrified white and the blotchy red of crying. His hair is tangled in the places he hasn’t run his fingers through, and his painted nails are chipped like he frantically tried to scrub the delicate varnish off.

Louis knows they were perfectly painted when they’d gone to sleep.

Louis talks. He doesn’t ever feel the need to talk so much when he’s with Harry, is content to just sit in shy silence, but he thinks it’s what Harry needs right now. He tells him happy stories, _always_ happy stories, and Harry doesn’t interrupt once, but Louis knows he’s listening.

The kitchen fills with the hushed, gentle rasp of his voice, and when Louis moves about to make them cups of milk-free tea he does it softly, movements carefully quiet. Harry doesn’t like loud noises, and Louis doesn’t make any.

He’s gentle when he places the cup beside Harry’s feet, too, and opens his palm up, waiting. Harry looks from the cookie to Louis’ fingers before timidly placing it in Louis’ hand. Louis only sets it beside the teacup, doesn’t think Harry would take well to it not being in his line of sight, not now.

“Thank you,” he hums, soft and pink, soothing. He’s sad, so, _so_ sad, and everything feels soft around them. He needs to take care of Harry right now.

Louis retrieves his own cup of tea from the counter before sitting right back where he was, in the kitchen doorway.

(He pretends not to notice that honey is missing from Harry’s scent, because if he focuses on that he thinks he might cry.)

Pinks and oranges are bleeding into the blue of the sky by the time Louis stops babbling, and Harry’s eyes are drooping.

“Can I come closer?” Louis says quietly, repeating his plea from earlier. Harry nods, straightening up and opening his arms. He wants to run to him, but he doesn’t. Just shuffles on the floor slowly because it makes Harry’s lips tug up in a sleepy grin. He tucks Harry against his chest, right over the beat of his heart, and pets his hair, tightening his arm around him when Harry pushes his face into Louis’ neck and inhales deeply.

Louis presses his mouth to the milky white skin of Harry’s neck and licks over his pulse point, and he should pull away, ask if it’s okay to scent him, but he doesn’t. His wolf knows what his omega needs. He licks from his neck to his shoulder and back, instead, because drenching Harry in his own scent is better than the emptiness of scent neutralisers, _anything_ is better than the emptiness.

He’s not trying to claim, his wolf knows Harry is his, but Louis can’t seem to stop scenting him, not when Harry finally smells as sated as he does – like his omega is content for the first time tonight because Louis’ alpha is doting over him, and he doesn’t try to fight it or push away, just sighs against Louis’ collar bone.

“Had a nightmare, pet?” Louis murmurs against his skin, and Harry nods, shivering.

“’m sorry.”

Louis shakes his head, still petting Harry’s curls. “Don’t want you to be sorry, don’t have to be sorry,” he says, because he knows Harry isn’t apologising for the crying, or waking Louis up in the middle of the night. It hurts, it’s hurting both of them, but it’s not Harry’s fault, never was. “Sleep now, baby.” He kisses Harry’s neck, only a soft press of his lips to warm skin. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

* * *

Harry’s sleeping on his chest when the phone rings. Louis’d carried him off the kitchen floor and to his bed when he finally fell asleep, and he’s been awake for hours, couldn’t fall back to sleep himself, his wolf too restless to leave Harry unattended for. So he just pets Harry’s hair and runs his fingers over the span of his back in soothing circles, blinking tired eyes at the ceiling.

He’s startled when he hears the ring, because he’s already texted Niall saying he won’t make it to work, and no one else should be calling at eight in the morning. It takes him a moment to notice that that’s not his phone ring in the first place because it’s not his phone ringing, but _Harry’s_.

Louis frowns at the screen. The number calling is only saved with a cherry blossom emoji, but it’s enough for Louis to know that whoever it is, Harry cares about them an incredible amount. He mutes the sound and sets the phone back on the bedside table, trying not to jostle Harry in the process. He considers waking him up, but he looks so peaceful like this that Louis only cuddles him closer, kissing the crown of his head.

The thing is, the phone doesn’t stop fucking ringing.

There's only about a three-second pause after the first call before it starts buzzing again, and then again when the second call cuts off, and again.

Whoever it is trying to disturb his omega’s sleep, Louis will _murder_ them–

He answers the phone. Before he can say anything, a voice that has a similar pitch to Harry’s but is much more feminine says, frantically, “Harry? Is everything okay? You promised you’d answer on the first call.”

“Uh,” Louis says after a long moment. Eloquent. “Hello.”

The person on the other end of the line pauses. “Where’s Harry,” they say finally, tone getting sharper.

“He’s asleep,” Louis says quietly. “May I ask who you are–”

“Who are you?”

It makes him smile, how defensive the voice sounds. “Louis,” he says, “Harry’s – friend.”

“Oh, Louis!” They don’t pause, and Louis only has a second to wonder how they know of his existence when they say, their voice going softer, “I’m Harry’s mum. Please, call me Anne.”

“Hello, Anne,” he says quietly, suddenly shy. Harry nuzzles into his neck, and Louis smiles down at him. “Harry really is asleep. Is there – do you want me to tell him to call back..?”

She hums quietly before saying, teasingly, “Do I want to know why he’s still asleep this late?” It’s not really late, just past eight in the morning, but Harry usually wakes up sometime earlier than six, Louis knows. He blushes all the way up to his ears, shaking his head.

“We didn’t – It’s not like that, oh, my God.”

Anne only laughs softly, and when Louis groans Harry stirs, making a small, confused sound.

“Sorry, baby,” he says, not higher than a soft whisper. Harry hums, melting back against him and smacking his lips.

“’id you sleep?”

“Not yet. I’ll sleep in a bit.”

He frowns. “Work?” he mumbles, leaning into Louis’ hand playing with his hair.

“No work today, angel. You wanna sleep some more or should I make you some breakfast?”

His eyes slowly flutter open, and he smiles sleepily. “’S the time?”

Louis remembers he’s still on the line with Anne when he goes to check, and he presses the phone back against his ear quickly. “Anne? I’m sorry–”

“Mummy?” Harry asks, confused, sitting up in Louis’ arms and rubbing at his eyes.

Anne’s laughter filters through the line, cutting Louis’ apologies off. “Harry’s friend, you said?”

Harry reaches a hand out and untangles the phone from Louis’ grip when he starts to stutter, bringing it to his own ear.

“I think you broke him,” he breathes, patting Louis’ flushed face with the tips of his fingers and blushing when Louis leans into his hand. “G’morning, Mum.”

Louis’ hands sneak around his waist and carry him up, and Harry shrieks, giggling when Louis slips off the bed before sitting him back on it.

“Gonna make breakfast,” he murmurs against his temple before kissing it, and when he leaves he pulls the door shut behind him, gently so he wouldn’t disturb the early morning quietness.

When Louis re-enters the room with a breakfast tray in his hands, Harry’s wiping at his eyes. He breathes out a laugh when he sees Louis, sniffling.

“Come here,” he says, opening his arms for a hug that Louis gives away after setting the tray on the bedside table.

“Okay?” Louis murmurs, pulling back and cupping Harry’s face with gentle hands, wiping the wetness from under his eyes.

Harry nods, exhaling shakily, and nuzzles into his left hand. “Kissy?” he asks shyly.

Louis presses their lips together, softly, too soft.

He wants to tell him he loves him, always does, but he only leans backwards after kissing him once more and presents him with heart-shaped sandwiches and a glistening glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

* * *

“Can I come in now?” Harry asks again.

“Not yet,” Louis says for the third time in five minutes, and Harry huffs.

“What are you even doing?”

“Just a sec,” he murmurs, dipping his fingers into the warm water. “Okay, you can come now.”

Harry’s pushing his head through the bathroom door to peek before Louis’ even finished with his sentence, and his eyes widen, strawberry red lips glossy and parting in a silent gasp.

It’s not anything special, Louis doesn’t think – he just filled the bathtub with hot water and threw in a sparkly pink, bubbly bath bomb – but Harry’s looking at the glittering pink like Louis’ plucked the stars from the sky and given them to him.

(Louis would, if he could.)

“C’mon,” he breathes, ushering Harry in. “Let’s get you all cleaned up.”

He undresses Harry slowly, hands gentle as they push his oversized shirt up his tummy and off his head, his thumbs pressing soothing circles into soft skin.

Harry blinks his big, doe eyes at him when Louis brushes his curls from over his face and back behind his ears, and Louis kisses his nose softly.

He slips the peach-print panties past Harry’s bum and down his shaved legs, Harry’s hands holding to Louis’ shoulders to steady himself when he kicks them off of his feet. There’s nothing – _nothing_ sexual about it, not at all. Louis is so attracted to him, he is, but he only wants to kiss him softly and shape his hair sloppily with pink soap suds to make him giggle, right now.

He helps Harry into the tub, not even moving away when warm water sloshes over the edge to soak through his socks, just wriggles his toes and grimaces, smiling when Harry laughs.

Louis doesn’t need to babble nonsense to fill the silence. Harry whispers sweet little stories, and others not as pleasant or sweet, and Louis listens, murmuring quiet commentary of his own every now and again, and small reassurances when Harry’s hands start to tremble.

He tells him about the lessons he used to take, and his older sister whom he loves so, so much, and his favourite flowers, and raisin cookies. He tells him about his dad, and the beatings, the pink and purple bruises. He tells Louis about his mummy, and the kisses, and the way she would push his dad away trying to protect her little boy.

He tells Louis that he feels like safety, smells like safety, that his kisses taste like safety.

So Louis presses safety into him through his lips until they’re spit-slick and swollen, and then some.

* * *

“Harry,” Louis breathes hesitantly, and Harry only pushes the neutralising cream into his hands again.

“Please?” he murmurs, and it’s shaky, letters trembling like his hands, but his eyes are sure. “Take it, Lou.”

It’s the same bottle he’d used after his nightmare a couple of days ago, had found it forgotten in a cupboard and broke it in before his mind could catch up with what his hands were doing.

He closes Louis’ hands around it, and his smile is wobbly. He’d told Louis the neutralisers made him feel dirty, that the emptiness in his own scent made his inner omega scared and lost in his chest, and Louis had only pulled him closer to his chest after their bubble bath and kitten-licked the milky skin of his neck and shoulder until Harry was whimpering against his jaw and soaked with the vanilla of Louis’ scent.

Louis takes it from him, sets it on the bedside table quietly. He doesn’t think he’s been so proud of someone before, his chest so full with love for them that he feels he could burst with it, but Harry is different. Harry’s special; Louis had known from the first time he’d seen him in the garden.

His hands are trembling when he pushes Harry down so his back is pressed against the pink sheets of the bed and his curls are loose like a halo around his head. Softly, Louis traces his knuckles over Harry’s cheek, his breath catching in his throat when Harry closes his eyes and leans into the touch, baring his neck.

Louis doesn’t kiss him, and he doesn’t bite him even though his teeth ache. He noses at his jaw and bared neck instead, shakily breathing honey in. He feels so selfish, and maybe he shouldn’t but he does, digging his nose harder against Harry’s skin.

“I love your honey,” he confesses quietly, nothing more than a whisper.

Harry tugs him up just enough so that their noses keep bumping against each other, and the green of his eyes is gentle when it catches Louis’ blue.

“’M really proud of you,” Louis breathes before Harry can say anything, because he _is_ , but also to give Harry something to focus on other than the soft confession. It’s too close to an _I love you_ than Louis thinks either of them is ready for.

The corners of Harry’s eyes crinkle softly when he smiles, like he knows, and he pushes his fingers into Louis’ feathery hair and tugs, just hard enough that it makes Louis shiver, his exhale shaky when it hits Harry’s lips.

“Yeah?” he says, not louder than a murmur, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. Louis watches the black of Harry’s pupils blow when he tugs his lip from between his teeth gently with the tip of his thumb. Harry’s lips part and Louis’ thumb slips inside his mouth, just the tiniest bit.

It’s still enough to make heat coil up in Louis’ tummy.

Louis kisses him, then, because he thinks if he doesn’t he might tell him he loves him.

The scent neutraliser isn’t on the bedside table when Harry wakes up the next morning.

* * *

The phone rings when Louis’ stepping away from the pub’s door, and he shares a confused look with Niall before pulling it out the back pocket of his jeans. He’s quick to hit answer and push it against his ear when he sees that it’s Lottie calling, because it’s almost midnight, and she knows better than to be calling him in the middle of the night.

“Hello?”

“Lou,” she says, and her voice is trembling, terrified, Louis’ nerves stand on edge, goosebumps dotting his skin.

“What happened?” he cuts off. “Lottie, tell me what the fuck happened.”

She lets out a small, choked sob before slowly trying to even her breathing. “Fizzy,” she starts, and Louis feels ice in his veins, doesn’t want to hear the rest of it, but he has to. “She was in a car accident. We’re in the hospital now, but they haven’t let us in to see her yet. Will you – Lou, you have to come, please.”

“I’ll–” He has to stop himself from crying, has to be strong because his family needs him right now. He can cry his heart out in the safety of Harry’s arms later. “I’ll take the first train out, yeah? Keep an eye at the kids with mum,” he says gently, wincing because she’s still a kid too. “I’ll be right there, love. You call or text me if anything happens, Lottie, do you understand?”

He drops the call when she affirms before turning to face Niall, his blue eyes wide and face pale.

“I’ll drive you,” Niall says immediately. “Go pack a bag; I’ll get the car from Zayn’s.”

Louis’ thankful he doesn’t ask what happened or why, and nods, running to his house while Niall goes in the other direction.

It’s about twenty minutes later that Niall finally pushes the passenger seat open for him. Zayn is in the backseat, and he stays silent when he sees Louis’ ghostly white face. Louis shoves his bag inside and gets in on wobbly legs. He’s not quite sure what he did or didn’t pack in it, just managed to work himself up into a frenzy that he distantly hopes doesn’t show on his face.

Deathly silence envelopes the car, and Louis’ gaze is hazy and set unseeing out the window. He startles when the passenger seat flings open and Harry climbs clumsily into his lap.

“What the–” Louis’ hands reach up instinctively to steady him, wrapping around his waist as Harry’s own cradle his face. “You were supposed to go to the train station,” is the only thing Louis manages to say, meant for Niall even though he doesn’t look away from Harry.

“Next train is still in forty-five minutes,” Niall says in lieu of an explanation, but then the car is moving again. Louis’ too distracted by how worried Harry’s eyes are to wonder if their next stop will be the train station or somewhere else.

He tries to focus on the familiar weight on his lap, tries to even his breathing, but now that Harry’s here he just wants to curl up in his arms and cry. He feels like he’s drowning.

“Honey,” Harry breathes, the one word managing to fill Louis’ eyes with hot tears. “It’s going to be alright.”

He shakes his head, because Harry doesn’t _know_ that, and for all they know Louis _could lose his baby sister_ –

Harry leans down and presses their foreheads together when Louis gasps, whispering _it’s okay_ softly over and over and wiping the tears from the corners of Louis’ eyes before they can spill over his cheeks.

“I’m here,” he promises, intensifying his scent. In the backseat, Zayn rolls his window down.

Louis tucks his face against Harry’s neck, and by the time Niall is parking the car his head is clearer and he no longer feels faint. Harry takes his hands gently and guides him to a free bench, even though he can see that Louis is able to do it on his own, and scoots right beside him so their sides are pressed together.

“Let me?” he says when Louis’ phone pings, all soft-spoken and caring and lovely.

Louis passes him the phone without looking even though his heart is trying to break out of his ribcage again, and holds his breath while Harry unlocks it and reads Lottie’s message.

“Doctor said her condition is stable.” He squeezes Louis’ hand, his relieved exhale matching Louis’. “Your mum was just allowed to go in and see her.”

Nodding, Louis rests his head on Harry’s shoulder, finally allowing himself to calm down. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Didn’t mean to freak out on you.”

Harry just shakes his head, playing with Louis’ fingers. “I think you’re handling it quite well,” he says, breathing out a laugh.

“I can’t believe you scented the car,” Louis laughs, looking up and catching Harry’s eyes. Harry’s smile turns shy, his cheeks pinkening. “I’m going to kill Zayn. And Niall. I don’t think Niall even noticed, but I’m not taking any chances.”

“Hey, Zayn at least opened his window. What else was he supposed to do?”

“Well, if _you_ didn’t scent a car with two alphas and a beta in it, he wouldn’t have had to do anything–”

Harry pouts. His eyes flit to the car where Niall and Zayn are waiting before looking at Louis again.

“How else was I supposed to take care of you,” he mumbles, tugging at Louis’ thumb, and Louis’ heart jumps to his throat.

He turns his head and bites at Harry’s clothed shoulder before kissing the fabric softly. An automated message about the train arriving shortly spills from speakers Louis can’t bother to look for before he can say anything.

Louis sits up, taking a deep breath, and looks at Harry, his eyes sharpening. “I know you can take care of yourself,” he starts, “but if you need _anything_ before I’m back, you call Zayn or Niall. You call me. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning or what I might be doing. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” He nods.

Louis’ voice softens, losing its alpha edge. He tucks a curl behind Harry’s ear before kissing his forehead and standing up. “C’mon, I’m walking you to the car.” Harry walks obediently by his side, his fingers tangling with Louis’. “Alright,” he murmurs, “in you go, baby.”

Harry squeezes his hand before letting go and climbing in next to Zayn, passing Louis his forgotten backpack. There’s something in his eyes that’s small and hesitant, but he doesn’t say anything.

It only makes Louis’ wolf even more distressed than it already is, though, and he catches Zayn’s golden eyes, silently saying, _I trust you to take care of him while I’m away_. Zayn nods once.

“You’ll miss your train,” he says.

Louis rolls his eyes just as Niall pipes up, “Hope everything gets better, mate. We’ll take care of Hazza for you. Now go.”

Another text chimes in when Louis steps into the train, and he notices he’s more frantic in checking it alone than he was when Harry was beside him.

 _Fizzy’s awake and OK_ , is all the text says. Another comes in a minute later.

_We’re waiting for you._

* * *

Fizzy’s smile is loopy when Louis pushes her hospital room’s door open, and Louis is so relieved he could cry. He knew she’s okay thanks to Lottie’s messages, but seeing her in front of him finally calms his wolf down from the distressed mess it managed to get into during the train ride. Ignoring the nurse gaping slightly at him and only sparing his family’s swollen, relieved faces a glance, he rushes to Fizzy’s side, taking her hand in his.

“ _Never_ do that to me again,” he says seriously. “God, fuck.”

She’s bruised, not badly but bruised, but – she’s alive. Everything’s okay.

Fizzy bites her busted lip, wincing a little as she shifts so she’s sitting up instead of lying on her back. The nurse clearly doesn’t approve. Louis rolls his eyes.

“Sorry,” Fizzy says softly, bringing Louis’ attention back to her. His eyes soften, and he leans to kiss her forehead and fix the bedsheet bunched up by her waist.

“Missed you,” he breathes. He thinks he might’ve been less worried if she wasn’t a newly presented omega, and that makes him think of Harry so he pushes it to the back of his mind insistently, looking around the room.

“Missed you more,” Fizzy whispers after he nods once to his mum and turns back to her. Lottie and the twins are already asleep, cuddled in the corner of the room next to each other. “Sorry for scaring you like that.”

Louis shakes his head, glaring playfully so she would giggle. “Do I want to know why you were out the house at midnight?” he asks, raising an eyebrow when she blushes. “You know what, don’t tell me. Let’s save me being angry for later.”

He dumps his tired body on the free chair next to Jay’s when the nurse finally asks him to step out of the way, wraps an arm around her shoulders.

“Hey,” he says softly, smiling when he catches her eyes. “You okay?”

Jay smiles tiredly, resting her head on Louis’ shoulder. “Yeah, we’re okay.” She quirks an eyebrow, and when she says, “You smell like honey,” she sounds amused more than anything.

Louis just grins, leaning into her warmth. “Gossip later. No time for love stories now.”

“Oh, _love_ stories, is it?”

“I’m gonna go get some tea!” he says, standing up abruptly. Jay stifles a laugh, and Louis pretends she didn’t. “Anyone want anything?”

* * *

“Just a second, Mum,” Louis breathes, hopping off the couch and accepting the call. “Sorry, I need to take this.”

They’ve tucked the kids into bed after sleepy goodbyes to Fizzy and the promise that they’ll be there the next morning, and now Jay’s made them both cups of tea, the two of them exhausted but too restless to sleep.

Jay just nods, waving a hand, and takes a sip of her tea.

“Hi, baby,” Louis says into the phone, walking to the guest room and closing the door gently behind himself.

“Is she– everything’s okay?”

“Yeah, love. Texted you that, didn’t I?” It comes out fond, and Louis barely even notices how soft his voice has gotten. He sits on the edge of the bed, tucking his socked feet under himself.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, “um, sorry–”

Louis clicks his tongue. “Hey, none of that. Just don’t want you to stay up too late. You’re grumpy when you haven’t gotten enough sleep.”

Harry pouts; Louis can hear it in his voice when he says, “Am not.”

“Are too.” He pulls the phone away from his face to check the time and frowns. “It’s almost two. That’s four hours past your bedtime.”

“I do _not_ have a bedtime. I’m not a child,” Harry scowls, even though he does go to sleep at ten every night. Louis tells him so. “Whatever, Lewis. My fault for calling to check on you, you can go fuck yourself now.”

“Oh, I can,” Louis says, amused, “can’t I.”

Harry stutters, and Louis can almost see the bright red blush coating his cheeks and disappearing beneath his collarbones. He must drop his phone because Louis hears a thud followed by a faint curse, and his grin only grows, warmth spreading through his chest.

“Harry, I’m kidding,” he says, cutting him off before Harry can start babbling.

“I hate you,” he murmurs, punctuating it with a yawn that he stifles with the back of his hand. “Hate you so much.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles. “You’re the worst.” He yawns again, and Louis hears muted shuffling over the line, like Harry’s getting in bed.

His smile softens. “Maybe,” he concedes, overwhelmed by the affection he has for this boy. “Gonna call you first thing in the morning,” he continues when Harry hums sleepily. “Talk then, yeah?”

“’Kay,” Harry slurs, voice thick with sleep and muffled with what Louis assumes is his pillow. “Stay on the line?”

“’Course, angel. Anything,” Louis says, tender and warm and a lot like a promise.

Soft snores fill the line not long after, and Louis wishes he had his boy in his arms right now. He sighs softly, lips breaking around a yawn of his own. “Sweet dreams, baby honey.”

“So?” Jay says when Louis sits himself back on the sofa, and Louis looks to her, confused. She rolls her eyes. “Did Harry fall asleep?”

“Oh,” he says, a little surprised even though he probably shouldn’t be. He’s talked about him over the phone, wonders if he’s talked about him a little too much if his mum didn’t need to ask who was calling when it’s the middle of the night. “Yeah.”

She takes a sip of what must be a fresh cup of tea, because it’s steaming, and when Louis touches his own he finds it icy cold. “When were you planning to tell me you got a boyfriend?” It’s not accusing, she sounds genuinely curious.

Louis huffs. “He’s not my boyfriend. We haven’t – we haven’t really talked about what we are.”

Jay looks surprised. “Does he not want a relationship..?”

“No,” he says immediately, “nothing like that.” He pauses, wringing his hands in his lap.

“You know,” Jay starts, and her voice is tilted in the way that Louis knows means she’s choosing her words carefully. “From what you’ve told me, I don’t think waiting for Harry to bring this up will work.” He starts to object, but she raises a hand to shut him up. “It’s okay to be scared of rejection. Everyone is.”

“I’m not,” Louis says, just to be stubborn.

His mum continues like he didn’t say anything. “But if you let him slip from between your fingers, you’re the only one who’ll regret it.”

“But–” He frowns, taking a deep breath. “What if he just wants to be friends? Then I’ll ruin everything.”

“Boo, if he’s the good friend you believe he is, your feelings for him won’t make him run. I know that you love him,” she says gently, “but your feelings matter too.” She gets off the couch when the silence stretches, grabbing her discarded mug of tea. “Don’t stay up too late, yeah?”

Louis blinks at his hands before turning to look at her. “Yeah,” he says. “G’night, Mum.”

The next five days pass in a blur of visits to the hospital and short calls to home that Louis fits in whenever he’s not busy meeting with doctors or keeping his siblings entertained. Jay doesn’t bring Harry up again, but she does tell Louis that if he wants to talk about it, she’s always there to listen. On the morning of the sixth day Fizzy is healthy enough to leave the hospital, and Louis’ grateful because she’s been whining about how boring the place is for three days now.

He wakes up to five smiles and falls asleep to them again, and he feels happy, he does, he’s missed being surrounded by the comforting chaos of a big family. Which is why he doesn’t understand why his wolf won’t calm down, too restless that Louis has trouble sleeping, and he’s slowly growing more and more irritable.

It doesn’t help that he’s worried about Harry, who didn’t answer either of Louis’ calls yesterday and Louis had to stop himself from calling Zayn and asking if Harry’s okay. He knows Harry can take care of himself, and he doesn’t want to be an obsessive freak, but he can’t seem to calm himself down either way.

His train ticket is for tomorrow afternoon, and he’s already done packing what little he got with him. Jay went to sleep about an hour ago, the girls an hour or so before that, and Louis’ lying in bed staring at his phone ringing pathetically in his hand. He’s startled when the call is answered and sits up, pushing the phone hurriedly against his ear.

“Lou,” Harry says before Louis can say anything, and he immediately knows that something is wrong.

“Hi, baby,” he says softly, gulping.

Harry hesitates, and Louis can almost see him, probably curled up on his bed or by the edge of the sofa, apprehension printed all over his face.

“Y’gonna tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks when Harry stays quiet for a tad too long, and his voice is soothing like he’s talking to a baby.

“I – my, um.” He inhales shakily before letting it out slowly. His letters topple over each other, but Louis understands. “My heat starts tomorrow.”

Louis’ mouth drops open in silent surprise – but he should’ve known, really. He thinks he’s mostly just shocked that it’s already been three months since Harry’s last heat, since he figured out Harry’s an omega.

“Oh,” he says. Because he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to say, but also because he needs Harry to tell him what he wants Louis to do. It’s all about Harry, it’s always been.

“Will you – like,” Harry mumbles his words, the last of his sentence inaudible, and Louis scratches at the bedsheet beside him.

“Speak up, darling. Can’t hear you.”

He expects Harry to say something along the lines of, “ _Please stay away from the cottage for the next week_ ”, and Louis’ okay with that, he thinks. He tells himself he’s okay with that, if that’s what Harry wants.

Harry doesn’t say that, though. “Will you – help? With my heat, will you help?”

Louis chokes, and he thinks it’s the trust this boy has in him, or maybe how overwhelming Louis’ love is for him, always. “Are you sure?” he says when he can breathe again; he doesn’t know why he feels like crying.

“If that’s – like, if that’s okay with you,” Harry murmurs, and he sounds scared, but Louis knows he wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t sure. He wonders if he’s been thinking this over the entire week, if this is what he wanted to tell him back at the train station.

“And you’ll tell me if you want me to stop,” he says anyway, “right? You can tell me to stop anytime, and I will. I’ll leave if you want me to.”

“Yes,” Harry says, a little surer of himself now. “I know. I’ll tell you, I promise.”

Louis nods. He’d like to ask when Harry’s with him, preferably, but he can’t guarantee that he’ll be back home before Harry is an incoherent mess, so he says, licking his lips, “Do you want me to fuck you,” and closes his eyes when Harry’s breath catches in his throat, “or do you have any toys you want me to use?”

“I – fuck me, please.”

It sounds so _naughty_ , coming from his mouth, and he’s always so _good_ , Louis’ skin feels so tight he’s going to combust.

His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows harshly, and he wets his lips again. “You’re on birth control, right?” he asks.

“Yes,” Harry says again.

“Do you want me to knot you–”

“Yes, Louis,” he breathes, a hint of a whine in his voice, and shifts on the mattress. He’s probably on his bed. Louis gulps again. “Yes, everything, I want – please.”

“Yeah?” Louis asks breathlessly, “Want me to take care of you, baby?”

“Please,” Harry says again, and it sounds like he’s tucked his face into his pillow, or maybe the garments of his nest.

Louis falls back onto the cool sheets of the bed, blinks up at the ceiling. “I’ll make it good for you,” he promises quietly, and Harry hums, the urgency bleeding from his voice slowly.

“Already do,” he murmurs, “you always take care of me. Always feel safe with you.”

It makes sense, suddenly, the way he’s much less insecure about his heat than Louis expected him to be even though that’s the one thing that socially defines his gender. It’s all about _safety_. Warmth fills Louis’ chest, soft and syrupy like honey, the heat in his tummy calming, and he turns his head to press his smile into his upper arm.

“ _I love you_ ,” he wants to say, over and over again, and then once, twice, a million more times. “Always feel safe with you, too,” he whispers instead, and he thinks they mean the same thing.

* * *

When Harry wakes up, his hair is damp, but not from sweat – it smells like his strawberry shampoo. The shirt he’s in smells like honey and the lavender of the detergent, and his legs are bare, only his strawberry-print panties snug around his hips. The sheets beneath him are changed into fresh, clean ones, and they smell like lavender too.

He rubs at his eyes, puffy lips breaking around a yawn. If the whole room, and Harry himself, wasn’t absolutely drenched in Louis’ scent, vanilla dimming every other smell, Harry thinks he’d be more worried that his alpha isn’t with him. He’s just about to get up and find him anyway, but then Louis’ pushing the door open fully, and Harry gives him a sleepy smile instead, burrowing under the blankets.

Louis hums, carefully getting up on the bed and setting the tray in his hands to the side.

“Done already? It’s only been two days,” he says, and it would be teasing if it didn’t sound so fond. He brushes a curl back behind Harry’s ear, accepting the tiny nod Harry offers. “Sit up a bit, darling,” he murmurs, helping Harry into a sitting position before reconsidering and pulling him into his lap instead. Harry nuzzles against his chest happily, digging his nose into Louis’ golden skin as Louis says, “I cut up some fruit, that okay?”

Harry nods again, opening his mouth obediently when Louis pushes a chopped pear against his lips. He sucks the fruit from Louis’ fingers slowly, munching even slower, and by the time he’s through with the pieces of pear and apple and grapes Louis’ chopped he’s almost asleep again, keeps blinking barely open eyes up at Louis.

Louis’ soft laughter reverberates under where Harry’s pressed his ear, and it feels like contentment and safety. His fingers are still in Harry’s mouth, and they’re no longer dripping with fruit juice but Harry’s still sucking on them gently like he’s sucking on a pacifier. Louis kisses the top of his head.

“Sleep, little one,” he whispers into his hair. So Harry does.

When Harry wakes up again, there are arms wrapped securely around his tummy, and Louis’ chest pressed against his back. He turns around carefully, his fingers reaching up to trace Louis’ features, lax in his sleep.

Louis’ nose twitches under his fingertips, and Harry giggles, shrieking and tucking his face in Louis’ chest when Louis opens his mouth to bite his finger.

“You were supposed to be asleep,” he says, still laughing breathlessly.

Louis hums. “Can’t be asleep when I’m meant to take care of my baby, can I?” he says, blinking his eyes open in time to see the tips of Harry’s ears flushing a lovely, lovely bright red. “You slept well, sweetheart?”

Harry nods against his chest before kissing it softly. He’s just the tiniest bit tense, in the way that Louis knows means he’s trying to figure out how to phrase a question or say something. He wishes he could tell him that he doesn’t need to think his words ten times over before opening his mouth, but he just kisses his hair, silently saying _I’m here_.

“Did–” he starts hesitantly, not higher than a whisper. “Was I good?”

Louis pulls him closer, scratching soothingly at his scalp. “The best,” he promises. “You were so, _so _good for me, you always are. Always make me so proud, you know that?”__

“Yeah?” he asks, Louis hearing the grin in his voice. It doesn’t sound like he doesn’t believe it, not like it would have a couple of months ago, just like he’s asking for more praise. Louis rolls his eyes fondly and gives it to him.

“Yeah,” he says. “Best boy ever, _my_ best boy. You’re my boy, aren’t you? My little darling,” he adds softly as Harry nods, his chocolate curls bouncing a little even when he’s lying down.

“’M yours,” he breathes. “Your – your omega.”

Louis cups his face and kisses him, then, because he needs to, because he’s so proud he can feel hot tears stinging the corners of his eyes and dewing over his eyelashes when he blinks. It’s only a sluggish press of their lips together, but it fills Louis’ tummy with wholeness that he kisses right into Harry, safety that he spills into the red bow of his lips.

“Yeah, mine,” Louis murmurs tenderly against his mouth, kissing messy, softly sweet kisses all over his flushed skin. He never really stood a chance, Louis doesn’t think. It was always going to be Harry, it always _will_ be Harry; Louis’ll never stop loving him, never stop feeling so content and whole when he’s with him, and a little like he’s going to burst – but only in the best of ways. “I’m yours,” he promises back in a whisper, because he _is_.

He’s Harry’s every way Harry is his, always will be.

* * *

“Angel?” Louis calls, toeing off his Vans and kicking them to the side before shaking his head at himself and placing them neatly by the door.

“Lou,” Harry says from his bedroom, “come save me.”

He rolls his eyes fondly, leaving the pink bag in his hand on the coffee table then making his way to Harry’s room.

The thing is – Harry always brings surprise with him, never ceases to knock the breath right out of Louis’ lungs and send his heart barrelling to his throat. It’s the good kind of surprise, the one where hearing every thump of his heart as it stumbles in his chest and the way he blushes a fire-hydrant red is welcome.

Harry’s wearing a bra.

Well, Harry’s _trying_ to wear a bra. His shirt is stuck over his eyes, and the bra is hanging loosely from his shoulders, unclasped. His panties are white with a pink lacy trim, the pattern of whichever designer Harry’s bought them from printed all over, matching his bra, and his legs are freshly shaved. His toenails are painted a delicate lemon yellow.

“Lou?” Harry asks hesitantly, voice small.

“Baby, how did you even manage to tangle yourself up like that?” he says, instead of, “ _Do you have any idea what you do to me you’re the most beautiful person in the world I want to kiss you into oblivion_.”

Harry huffs, pulling at his shirt. “It stuck!” he whines, evidently frustrated, and Louis stifles a laugh. “It’s not funny,” he scowls.

It makes Louis snort, giggling when Harry whines again. “Sorry, ‘m sorry,” he breathes between his giggles, “’M sorry, honest. C’mere, Hazza.”

“Where is ‘here’.” It’s not a question. Louis has to bite hard at his bottom lip to keep from laughing again.

He shakes his head, doesn’t quite know how he got lucky enough to have Harry in his life, and walks up to him. “Let me,” he murmurs softly, loosening Harry’s grip on the shirt and tugging it up gently, little slow tugs upwards until it’s off. Harry blinks twice, twinkling green eyes slowly focusing on Louis. His lips pull up in a smile so sweet, always so sweet. “Hi.”

Louis grins, nudging their noses together. “Hi, you. Missed you today.”

“Turn around,” he orders fondly after pecking his lips. He doesn’t know why he says it, but he does. “Your bra’s slipping. Can’t have your boobs out, can we?”

Harry’s breath hitches, and Louis only has a second to wonder if he’s fucked up before he’s nodding shyly. “Fix it, then.”

Louis’ fingers are shaky as he fixes the clasp, trying it twice before managing to latch it closed. “Too tight?”

Harry shakes his head. “’S perfect,” he murmurs, not yet turning around. Louis traces the line of his spine, a barely-there touch with the tip of his pointer finger that is just enough to make Harry shiver.

His love handles are pudgy and so precious under Louis’ hands when he digs his thumbs into them and turns Harry around so his strawberry coloured face is inches away from Louis’.

“I really wanna kiss you right now,” Louis breathes against his mouth, and Harry’s eyes aren’t even on his, fell to stare at Louis’ lips what feels like ages ago. It’s heavy, and all of their kisses and little touches are but this is different, this says _you’re my person I love you more than anything I want to be with you always_.

“Please,” Harry whispers, the word so quiet Louis barely even catches it. “Lou.”

Louis’ lips brush against his, and Harry whines, trying to tug Louis closer. He’s so, so lovely, and he smells so sweet, his honey seeping into Louis’ skin. It feels like safety, like home.

“I love you,” he says, all soft-spoken and pink, and he thinks Harry knows. “Did y’know that?”

Harry’s lips taste like his strawberry lip balm and reassurance, and his arms wrap tighter around Louis’ frame. His hands are in Louis’ hair, not tugging, just petting gently. Louis’ never loved someone as much as he loves this boy, _his_ boy, his little darling. He never _will_ love anyone else the way he loves Harry, he knows. He can feel it in the way his heart stutters in his chest when Harry’s tongue pushes his lips apart to take soft, sloppy kisses, in the way his wolf is purring contentedly, matching Harry’s, in the way he’s never felt as safe as he does right now.

Safe. Louis loves that word, that feeling. Harry feels like safety, and Louis loves him, wants to love him forever.

“I love you,” Harry gasps against Louis’ spit-slick lips. “I love you,” he says again when Louis pulls back for air. “I love you, I love you.” He can’t stop saying it now that he’s allowed to, presses it into the warm puffs of air he breathes between them as Louis kisses his forehead and fluttering eyelashes and cheeks and red little nose before finally pecking his jaw and focusing back on his lips. “I love you.”

Louis bets he loves him more.

* * *

Harry is sitting on Louis’ lap, painting his nails a light blue. He pulled on a shirt, probably for Louis’ sake, but it’s _sheer_ , and he forgo wearing any pants, so Louis can still see the way the bra fits on his stupidly beautiful body and the lines the panties press onto his bum, and it really isn’t helping.

He stops humming a song Louis’ come to know is his favourite to say, “Switch, please,” and he’s back to mumbling the words under his breath when Louis gives him his other hand. They haven’t yet left their bedroom and Louis’ almost forgotten about the bag in the lounge – until Harry hops off him, Louis holding his thighs instinctively to steady him, and runs out to get more cookies from the kitchen, coming back with the bubble gum pink gift bag in his hands and an adorably confused pout on his face instead.

“Lou?” He asks, “What’s this?”

“Oh,” Louis says, suddenly flustered. “I got you something.”

He gets on the bed, crossing his knees, and he’s so close his knee bumps against Louis’ thigh, but Louis still wants him closer. “Can I see?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, wrapping his hands around Harry’s tiny waist and carrying him up into his lap again then kissing right under his ear, smiling softly when Harry giggles. “It’s not much. I got it when I went shopping with Zayn, made me think of you,” he says quietly into Harry’s shoulder as Harry opens the bag with careful fingers so as not to rip it.

Harry doesn’t say anything as he unwraps the pink tissue paper crumpled over the box or when he finally breaks the box open. There’s a small, circular music box in it, and Harry traces the golden bumps of its design with the tip of his finger before taking it out and opening it slowly like he’s trying to take it all in before moving on to the next part.

The piano record of the song he was just humming starts to play, and he turns to Louis, surprised. “I didn’t know music boxes played this song.”

“They don’t,” Louis murmurs, kissing Harry’s shoulder softly. “I changed the music. Liam helped.”

He nods, turning to face the box again. Louis watches him as he watches the fairy in the middle spin in time with the music. Slowly, he slips his hand from around Harry’s waist and walks it down Harry’s arm until his fingers are brushing over Harry’s knuckles.

Harry turns his hand and tangles his fingers with Louis’. With his other hand, he traces the flower crown on the fairy’s head before his fingers fall over the softness of her dress.

“Thank you,” he whispers, sniffling.

“Thank _you_ ,” Louis says and turns Harry’s face gently to kiss the damp skin under his eye. He can hear it, the _thank you for listening, thank you for being there, thank you for caring, thank you for loving me, thank you thank you thank you_ that Harry didn’t say. “I love you.”

* * *

They’re in the garden, Louis’ back pressed to the side of the cottage and Harry tucked in the space between his spread legs, a book in his own lap. The sun’s barely just come up, and Louis presses a yawn to Harry’s shoulder, sleepily smacking his lips.

His drooping eyes flicker over Harry’s shoulder to what used to be his spot at the very beginning. Harry must feel the way his lips pull up in a drowsy smile, because he hums.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” he says softly.

Louis nods, but his eyes close on their own accord.

“Lou.”

“’M awake.”

There’s shuffling, and Harry moving a bit before hands are cupping Louis’ cheeks. “No, you’re not.”

“M’kay,” he breathes, and Harry laughs.

“I know you usually stay up to stare at me like a creep, but you didn’t sleep here last night. Tell me, what’s it?”

Louis frowns, leaning into the warmth of Harry’s hand. His eyes are still closed. “Fiz has a girlfriend.”

“Okay?” Harry asks after a pause. “And?”

“And,” Louis mumbles poutily, blinking up at him, “she’s still a baby. She shouldn’t have a girlfriend.”

Harry nudges the tip of his thumb under Louis’ eye. “You’re a baby and you have a girlfriend,” he says.

Louis huffs, but the frown melts right off his face. “’M not a baby. You’re a baby.”

Harry’s soft laughter is pressed against his forehead with a kiss. “Yeah,” he says, “I am.”

“And you’re lovely and sweet and, like, soft, and an angel.” He leans forward and kisses Harry’s jaw, murmuring the rest of his words against it. “And you think flowers and books are the best things in the world, and you call your mum ‘Mummy’ and you love raisin cookies and the colour pink and music no one ever listens to anymore, and you smell like honey, and – you love _me_ so much, best girlfriend in the world. How’d I get so lucky?”

“Louis–” Harry starts to say, but Louis puts a finger on his lips. Harry kisses it instead.

“And you’re so strong, did you know that? You get up every morning and – _do_ things, even if it scares you, even if you didn’t want to leave your bed in the first place. And you just, you make me so proud all the time, because you keep trying. I know you think you’re not doing enough sometimes, or that you’re not good enough, but that’s not true, baby, none of it.”

“Should’ve let you sleep,” Harry breathes, laughing softly against the tip of Louis’ finger, but his eyes are damp and wide and Louis’ favourite shade of green.

Louis pulls him down the tiniest bit until he’s talking against his mouth, their lips brushing together. “’M always so proud of you. I keep falling in love with you, and falling in love with you, and falling in love with you more no matter what you do, every single day.” He kisses him softly between the words, licking the salt of a teardrop from the corner of his mouth. “And, like – falling in love with you’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I wanna keep doing it forever.”

He bumps their noses together, his chest filling up with warmth that’s soft like sunshine. “Harry Styles,” Louis breathes, barely louder than a whisper, and kisses him again. “My whole world revolves around you. You’re everything.”

* * *

“Niall, _this_ is why I told you to sit between them! Will you two _stop making out before I crash the car_ –”

Niall rolls his eyes like he’s not at all bothered that Zayn and Liam are practically snogging right in front of him. “You and Haz aren’t any better,” he says from the backseat, amused.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Louis screeches again like that is more important than focusing on not crashing the car. “And Harry and I are _not_ like that, how dare you!”

He receives a hum and Niall throwing the empty packet of chips at the back of his head, and he’s about to yell again but decides against it, pouting instead.

Zayn finally sits upright, his hair dishevelled, and smiles sweetly at Louis in the rearview mirror. Louis hates him.

“Your scent is all over the place,” he says, wrinkling his nose and frowning still. “Open the windows.”

The car is almost fully aired out when Louis parks it, and then the door to the driver’s seat is swinging open and Harry’s standing there pigeon-toed and lovely, looking like all of Louis’ dreams squeezed into one tiny little body with a personality that’s bigger than the sun.

“Hiii!” he practically yells, grinning so wide his cheeks dimple. The corners of his eyes and the tip of his nose are a deep red that matches his high-waisted baggy pants and the bow tying his hair into a ponytail.

Louis’ pout melts into a gentle smile. “Hi, my love.”

Harry leans down and kisses him, humming against his lips when Louis’ hands sneak up to touch the bare skin of his upper belly, just under his bra. “’S that my pomegranate lip balm?” he asks softly when he pulls back.

“Yup.” Louis licks his lips, grinning. “Now get in.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. He points a finger at the passenger seat, and his cherry red painted nail glistens under the light of the sun. “ _You_ get in. I’m driving.”

“Oh? That’s not what we agreed on.”

Harry huffs. “Yes, _but._ I’m your baby and you love me and that’s why I get what I want, and I want to drive.”

Zayn snorts from the backseat, pressing his giggles into Liam’s shoulder when Harry turns to glare at him.

He turns to Louis again, bottom lip sticking out as he pouts. “Please?”

Rolling his eyes, Louis scoots over awkwardly to the side and over the centre console before dumping himself in the passenger seat. Harry smiles – his Sunshine Smile, Louis calls it, when his bunny teeth are on display and his eyes are glimmering half-moons, dimples kissing his cheeks – and it may have been a little more than a year since they’ve gotten together but Louis’ heart still swoops in his chest, his wolf preening.

“Hi,” Harry says when he gets in and pulls on his seatbelt, turning around to face the boys; his grin turns shy, cheeks pinkening.

“Where are we going, princess?” Louis asks when they’ve been driving for an hour, and Harry just screams louder to the music and pushes hard at the pedal.

They’re in the middle of absolutely nowhere, and Harry Styles is yelling through soft bursts of laughter that he doesn’t know where they’re going.

He turns to Louis, eyes crinkled and hair ruffled from the cool wind pulsing through the open window. Louis pushes himself upwards and kisses his cold lips, laughing when Harry shrieks away, says, “Lou, I’m _driving_!” the words choppy with the force of his giggles.

The boys yell at them to watch the road, Niall saying something about how Louis and Harry are worse than Zayn and Liam, after all. Harry just takes Louis’ hand in his, resting them entwined over the console and driving one-handedly.

“Your nail polish is all chipped,” he says softly, keeping his eyes on the road this time but running his thumb over Louis’ nails. “Should repaint it red later, so we match.”

“Okay,” Louis agrees simply, “whatever you want.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, but Louis doesn’t miss the way his cheeks turn a brighter red, his lips tugging up in a tiny smile. “Whatever I want? That’s too much power, Tomlinson; I’ll go mad with it.”

“That’s okay,” Louis says, “you can do whatever you want. I’ll still love you.”

“Even–” he bites his bottom lip to keep himself from smiling but it doesn’t work, not the tiniest bit. He never really stops smiling when he’s with Louis. “Even if I ate all the cookies and didn’t keep any for you?”

Louis nods. “Even then.”

“Even if I stole your favourite hoodie and didn’t give it back?”

“Yes.”

“Even if I told my therapist you thought tiny little me was an alpha for ages?”

“You did _not_ ,” Louis growls, but his tone is teasing.

Harry giggles. “She asked.”

“Oh, baby, what am I gonna do with you?”

He catches Harry’s eyes, and they’re so, so green, so bright, brighter than they were yesterday, and the day before that. Louis knows they’ll be brighter tomorrow.

“Love me forever,” he demands, squeezing Louis’ hand.

There are still days when he comes back from his therapy sessions and blinks tired eyes at Louis, refuses to speak for hours because he doesn’t feel safe enough to. There are still days when he cries himself to sleep or wakes up crying from a nightmare that’s really a bad memory.

(Louis’ learned that there’s more to the story than the bits Harry gave him, but he never presses for more. Some days Harry will feel safe enough to whisper broken memories into the safe space between Louis’ neck and shoulder, and sometimes he’ll cry, sometimes he’ll sound so detached from it all it’ll make _Louis_ cry, but Louis holds him all the same through it, whispers soft promises and reassurances against his warm skin.)

There are days, though, when Louis wakes up to Harry dancing to old song records in the kitchen when the sun hasn’t yet come up, and the raisin cookies he pulls out of the oven he’s made just because he likes the taste, not because he’s trying to hide. There are days when he’s loud and bubbly, and he’ll dress however he wants and say whatever he wants and kiss Louis until Louis’ gasping against his mouth, until their lips are swollen and slick with spit, until their eyes are more black pupil than colour.

Sometimes Harry’s hands still tremble, but lately it’s been more by the force of his laughter than because he’s scared, and Louis sees that. Louis sees that, and it makes a honey-warm softness bubble up in his chest and tummy. He always pulls Harry close, closer, and kisses him – simply because he loves him, because Harry is his baby.

Louis smiles softly, pulling Harry’s hand to his lips and kissing his knuckles. Harry bites his lip shyly, and Niall gags, but Louis means every word he says, knows he’ll mean it always.

“Think forever is a tad too short. I’ll love you longer than that.”

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is my baby. be gentle.
> 
> (if you liked it, maybe reblog the [tumblr post](https://loveroflou.tumblr.com/post/640042334603624448/ive-kissed-honey-lips-felt-the-healing-in-the). if you didn’t, don’t tell anyone. and reblog the tumblr post.)
> 
> (edit as of feb. 2nd: [here is a drabble](https://loveroflou.tumblr.com/post/642008104227209216/lizzie-asked-about-zayn-and-harrys-friendship-in) in this universe about a scene that i wanted to include but didn’t quite fit in.)
> 
> [tumblr](https://loveroflou.tumblr.com)


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